TALES 


BOHEMIA 


Robert  Neilson  Stephens 


om 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 


WORKS  OF 

ROBERT  ^CEILSON  STEPHENS 


An  Enemy  to  the  King       -         - 

The  Continental  Dragoon 

The  Road  to  Paris    - 

A  Gentleman  Player      - 

Philip  Winwood         - 

Captain  Ravenshaw       - 

The  Mystery  of  Murray  Davenport 

The  Bright  Face  of  Danger    - 

The  Flight  of  Georgiana 

Tales  from  Bohemia       - 

Clementina's  Highwayman  - 

(By  Robert  Neilson  Stephens  and  George  Hembert  Wettley) 

¥¥ 

L.  C  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

EW  ENGLAND  BUILDING       •       SOSTON.  MASS. 


I  HAPPENED   TO    BE   AT    THE     STAGE     DOOR    AGAIN    WHEN 
SHE     CAME    OUT    WITH    HER    MAID.'  ' 

(See  Page  271.) 


E5HS2SBS2SH. 


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i  i 

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TALES  FROM 

BOHEMIA 


szsEssssja 


By 

ROBERT 
NEILSON 
STEPHENS 


Author  of  "  An 
Enemy  to  the 
King,"  "  Philip 
Winwood,"  etc. 


Illustrated  by  WALLACE  GOLDSMITH 


L.    C.    PAGE   &    COMPANY 
BOSTON     -          -     MDCCCCVIII 


Copyright,  1908 

BY  L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATM) 


All  rights  reserved 


First  Impression,  September,  1908 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  at 
THE  COLONIAL  PRESS: 
C.H.Simondt  C&  Co.,  Boston,  U.S.A. 


ROBERT    NEILSON    STEPHENS 

A   MEMORY 

ONE  crisp  evening  early  in  March,  1887,  I 
climbed  the  three  flights  of  rickety  stairs  to  the 
fourth  floor  of  the  old  "  Press  "  building  to  begin 
work  on  the  "  news  desk."  Important  as  the 
telegraph  department  was  in  making  the  news- 
paper, the  desk  was  a  crude  piece  of  carpentry. 
My  companions  of  the  blue  pencil  irreverently 
termed  it  "  the  shelf."  This  was  my  second  night 
in  the  novel  dignity  of  editorship.  Though  my 
rank  was  the  humblest,  I  appreciated  the  impor- 
tance of  a  first  step  from  "  the  street."  An  older 
man,  the  senior  on  the  news  desk,  had  preceded 
me.  He  was  engaged  in  a  bantering  conversation 
with  a  youth  who  lolled  at  such  ease  as  a  well- 
worn,  cane-bottomed  screw-chair  afforded.  The 
older  man  made  an  informal  introduction,  and  I 
learned  that  the  youth  with  pale  face  and  serene 
smile  was  "  Mr.  Stephens,  private  secretary  to  the 
managing  editor."  That  information  scarcely 

v 


2228457 


ROBERT   NEILSON    STEPHENS 

impressed  me  any  more  than  it  would  now  after 
more  than  twenty  years'  experience  of  managing 
editors  and  their  private  secretaries. 

The  bantering  continued,  and  I  learned  that  the 
youth  cherished  literary  aspirations,  and  that  he 
performed  certain  work  in  connection  with  the 
dramatic  department  for  the  managing  editor, 
who  kept  theatrical  news  and  criticisms  within 
his  personal  control. 

Suddenly  a  chance  remark  broke  the  ice  for  a 
friendship  between  the  young  man  and  me  which 
was  to  last  unbroken  until  his  untimely  death. 
Stephens  wrote  the  Isaac  Pitman  phonography! 
Here  had  I  been  for  more  than  three  years  won- 
dering to  find  the  shorthand  writers  of  wide-awake 
and  progressive  America  floundering  in  what  I 
conceived  to  be  the  Serbonian  bog  of  an  archaic 
system  of  stenography.  Unexpectedly  a  most 
superior  young  man  came  within  my  ken  who  was 
a  disciple  of  Isaac  Pitman.  Furthermore,  like 
myself,  he  was  entirely  self  taught.  No  old  short- 
hand writer  who  can  look  back  a  quarter  of  a 
century  on  his  own  youthful  enthusiasm  for  the 
art  can  fail  to  appreciate  what  a  bond  of  sympa- 
thy this  discovery  constituted.  From  that  night 
forward  we  were  chosen  friends,  confiding  our 
ambitions  to  each  other,  discussing  the  grave 

vi 


ROBERT    NEILSON   STEPHENS 

issues  of  life  and  death,  settling  the  problems  of 
literature.  Notwithstanding  his  more  youthful 
appearance,  my  seniority  in  age  was  but  slight. 
Gradually  "  Bob,"  as  all  his  friends  called  him 
with  affectionate  informality,  was  given  oppor- 
tunities to  advance  himself,  under  the  kindly  yet 
firm  guidance  of  the  managing  editor,  Mr.  Brad- 
ford Merrill.  That  gentleman  appreciated  the 
distinct  gifts  of  his  young  prote'ge',  journalistic  and 
literary,  and  he  fostered  them  wisely  and  well.  I 
remember  perfectly  the  first  criticism  of  an  impor- 
tant play  which  "  Bob  "  was  permitted  to  write 
unaided.  It  was  Richard  Mansfield's  initial 
appearance  in  Philadelphia  as  "  Dr.  Jekyl  and  Mr. 
Hyde,"  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre  on  Mon- 
day, October  3,  1887. 

After  the  paper  had  gone  to  press,  and  while 
Mr.  Merrill  and  a  few  of  the  telegraph  editors  were 
partaking  of  a  light  lunch,  the  night  editor,  the 
late  R.  E.  A.  Dorr,  asked  Mr.  Merrill  "  how 
Stephens  had  made  out." 

"  He  has  written  a  very  clever  and  very  inter- 
esting criticism,"  Mr.  Merrill  replied.  "I  had  to 
edit  it  somewhat,  because  he  was  inclined  to  be 
Hugoesque  and  melodramatic  in  describing  the 
action  with  very  short  sentences.  But  I  am  very 
much  pleased,  indeed." 

vii 


ROBERT    NEILSON   STEPHENS 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Bob's  career  as  a 
dramatic  critic,  a  career  in  which  he  gained  au- 
thority and  in  which  his  literary  faculties,  his 
felicity  of  expression  and  soundness  of  judgment 
found  adequate  scope. 

In  the  following  two  or  three  years  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  field  of  dramatic  criticism  occupied  his 
time  to  the  temporary  exclusion  of  his  ambition 
for  creative  work.  He  and  I  read  independently ; 
but  our  tastes  had  much  in  common,  though  his 
preference  was  for  imaginative  literature.  Mean- 
while I  was  writing  short  stories  with  plenty  of 
plot,  some  of  which  found  their  way  into  various 
magazines;  but  his  taste  lay  more  in  the  line  of 
the  French  short  story  writers  who  made  an 
incident  the  medium  for  portraying  a  character. 
Historical  romance  had  fascinations  for  me,  but 
Alphonse  Daudet  attracted  both  of  us  to  the 
artistic  possibilities  that  lay  in  selecting  the 
romance  of  real  life  for  treatment  in  fiction  as 
against  the  crude  and  repellent  naturalism  of 
Zola  and  his  school.  This  fact  is  not  a  little 
significant  in  view  of  the  turn  toward  historical 
romance  which  exercised  all  the  activities  of 
Robert  Neilson  Stephens  after  the  production  of 
his  play,  "  An  Enemy  to  the  King,"  by  E.  H. 
Sothern. 

viii 


ROBERT    NEILSON   STEPHENS 

Still  our  intimacy  had  prepared  me  for  the 
change.  Through  many  a  long  night  after  working 
hours  we  had  wandered  through  the  moonlit 
streets  until  daybreak  exchanging  views  freely 
and  sturdily  on  historical  characters  on  the  phi- 
losophy of  history,  on  the  character  of  Henry  of 
Navarre  and  his  followers,  and  on  the  worthies  of 
Elizabethan  England,  in  the  literature  of  which 
we  had  immersed  ourselves.  Kipling  had  recently 
burst  meteor-like  on  the  world,  and  Barrie  raised 
his  head  with  a  whimsical  smile  closely  chasing  a 
tear.  Thomas  Hardy  was  in  the  saddle  writing 
"  Tess,"  and  in  France  Daudet  was  yet  active 
though  his  prime  was  past.  Guy  de  Maupassant 
continued  the  production  of  his  marvellous  short 
stories.  These  were  the  contemporary  prose 
writers  who  engaged  our  attention.  A  little  later 
we  hailed  the  appearance  of  Stanley  J.  Weyman 
with  "  A  Gentleman  of  France,"  and  the  Conan 
Doyle  of  "  The  White  Company  "  and  "  Micah 
Clarke  "  rather  than  the  creator  of  "  Sherlock 
Holmes  "  commended  our  admiration.  We  were 
by  no  means  in  accord  on  the  younger  authors. 
Diversity  of  opinion  stimulates  critical  discussion, 
however.  I  had  not  yet  become  reconciled  to 
Kipling,  who  provoked  my  resentment  by  certain 


ROBERT    NEILSON   STEPHENS 

coarse  flings  at  the  Irish,  but  "  Bob  "  hailed  him 
with  whole-hearted  enthusiasm. 

We  were  not  the  only  members  of  the  staff  with 
literary  aspirations.  Others,  like  the  late  Andrew 
E.  Watrous,  had  achievements  of  no  mean  order 
in  prose  and  verse.  Still  others  were  sustaining 
the  traditions  of  "  The  Press  "  as  a  newspaper 
office  which  throughout  its  history  had  been  a 
stepping  stone  to  magazine  work  and  other  forms 
of  literary  employment.  Richard  Harding  Davis 
was  on  the  paper  and  "  Bob  "  Stephens  was  one 
of  the  two  men  most  intimately  in  his  confidence 
regarding  his  ambitions. 

Finally  Bob  told  me  that  "  Dick  "  had  taken 
him  to  his  house  and  read  to  him  "  A  bully  short 
story,"  adding,  "  It's  a  corker." 

I  inquired  the  nature  of  the  story. 

"  Just  about  the  '  Press  '  office,"  Bob  replied. 

Among  other  particulars  I  asked  the  title. 

"  '  Gallegher,'  "  said  Bob. 

Three  years  elapsed  after  our  first  acquaintance 
before  Bob  Stephens  began  writing  stories  and 
sketches.  The  "  Tales  from  Bohemia  "  collected 
in  this  volume  represent  his  early  creative  work. 
We  were  in  the  better  sense  a  small  band  of 
Bohemians,  the  few  friends  and  companions  who 
will  be  found  figuring  in  the  tales  under  one  guise 

x 


ROBERT   NEILSON   STEPHENS 

or  another.  Many  a  merry  prank  and  many  a  jest 
is  recalled  by  these  pages.  Of  criticism  I  have  no 
word  to  say.  Let  the  reader  understand  how  they 
came  into  being  and  they  will  explain  themselves. 
"  Bob  "  Stephens  took  his  own  environment,  the 
anecdotes  he  heard,  the  persons  whom  he  met  and 
the  friends  whom  he  knew,  and  he  treated  them 
as  the  writers  of  short  stories  in  France  twenty 
years  ago  treated  their  own  Parisian  environment. 
He  made  an  incident  the  means  of  illustrating  a 
portrayal  of  character.  Later  he  was  to  construct 
elaborate  plots  for  dramas  and  historical  novels. 

"  Bohemianism  "  was  but  a  brief  episode  in  the 
life  of  "  R.  N.  S."  It  ceased  after  his  marriage. 
But  his  natural  gaiety  remained.  Seldom  was 
his  joyous  disposition  overcast,  or  his  winning 
smile  eclipsed.  For  six  months  I  was  privileged  to 
live  in  the  house  with  his  mother.  If  he  had  in- 
herited his  literary  predilections  from  his  father, 
— a  highly  respected  educator  of  Huntington,  Pa., 
from  whose  academy  many  eminent  professional 
men  were  graduated, —  his  gentleness,  his  cheer- 
fulness, his  winning  smile  and  the  ingratiating 
qualities  to  which  it  was  the  key,  as  surely  came 
from  his  mother. 

I  remember  a  time  when  he  was  inordinately 
grave  for  several  days  and  pursued  a  tireless 

xi 


ROBERT   NEILSON   STEPHENS 

course  of  special  reading  through  the  office  en- 
cyclopaedias and  some  books  he  had  borrowed. 
At  last  he  drew  aside  the  veil  of  reserve  which  con- 
cealed his  family  affairs  from  even  his  closest 
friends  and  inquired  if  I  could  direct  him  to  any 
recent  authority  on  cancer.  I  divined  the  sad 
truth  that  his  tenderly  beloved  mother  was  suf- 
fering from  the  dread  disease.  That  was  the  day 
before  serums,  and  nothing  that  he  found  to  read 
in  books  or  periodicals  gave  him  a  faint  hope 
that  his  dear  one  could  be  cured.  Thenceforward, 
mother  and  son  awaited  the  inevitable  end  with 
uncomplaining  patience  which  was  characteristic 
of  both.  His  cheerful  smile  returned,  and  while 
the  blow  of  bereavement  was  impending  practi- 
cally all  these  "  Tales  from  Bohemia "  were 
written. 

To  follow  the  career  of  "  R.  N.  S."  and  trace 
his  development  after  he  gave  up  newspaper  work 
in  the  fall  of  1893  is  not  required  in  this  place. 
"  Tales  from  Bohemia  "  will  be  found  interesting 
in  themselves,  apart  from  the  fact  that  they 
illustrate  another  phase  of  the  literary  gift  of  a 
young  writer  who  contributed  so  materially  to  the 
entertainment  of  playgoers  and  novel  readers  for 
a  period  of  ten  years  after  the  work  in  this  book 
was  all  done.  j.  o.  G.  D. 

xii 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 


Contents 


THE  ONLY  GIRL  HE  EVER  LOVED 

A  BIT  OF  MELODY 

ON  THE  BRIDGE        ..... 
THE  TRIUMPH  OF  MOGLEY     .       .       . 

OUT  OF  His  PAST 

THE  NEW  SIDE  PARTNER        .       .       . 
THE  NEEDY  OUTSIDER     .... 
TIME  AND  THE  TOMBSTONE     . 
HE  BELIEVED  THEM         .... 

A  VAGRANT         

UNDER  AN  AWNING   ..... 

SHANDY'S  REVENGE 

THE  WHISTLE 

WHISKERS 

THE  BAD  BREAK  OF  TOBIT  MCSTENGER 

THE  SCARS 

"  LA  GITANA  "   .       .       .      .       .       . 

TRANSITION 

A  MAN  WHO  WAS  No  GOOD 


43 
53 
73 
85 

99 
109 

121 

127 
I4I 
I49 

161 
169 
183 
'97 
203 
217 
227 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


XX.  MR.  THORNBERRY'S  ELDORADO      ...  241 

XXI.    AT  THE  STAGE  DOOR 257 

XXII.  "  POOR  YORICK  "       .       .       .       ...  277 

XXIII.  COINCIDENCE .  295 

XXIV.  NEWGAG  THE  COMEDIAN 3°7 

XXV.  AN  OPERATIC  EVENING    .       .       .       .       .  3*9 


%ist  of  IHlustratfons 


"  '  I  HAPPENED  TO  BE  AT  THE  STAGE  DOOR  AGAIN 
WHEN  SHE  CAME  OUT  WITH  HER  MAID  '  "  (Set 
page  271)  .......  Frontispitce 

"  '  YOU,    TOO,   ARE   MISTAKEN,'    SHE    SAID  "...  2O 

"  THE   MAN   WAS   ON    HIS    KNEES  "      .....  39 

"  IT  WAS   A  FINE   BIT  OF   ACTING  "    .....  64 

"  SHE    PUSHED   THROUGH   THE    CROWD   TO    HIM  "             .  89 

"  THE    PROSTRATE    FORM    OF   AN   ASTONISHED    MAN  "   .  157 

"  BLAKE  STOOD  PERFECTLY  STILL  "  236 
"  NIGHT  AND  DAY  HE  PATROLLED  HIS   LITTLE  DO- 

MAIN "                              ......  252 


THE  ONLY   GIRL  HE  EVER   LOVED 


TALES  FROM 
BOHEMIA 


THE    ONLY   GIRL    HE    EVER   LOVED 

WHEN  Jack  Morrow  returned  from  the  World's 
Fair,  he  found  Philadelphia  thermometers  regis- 
tering 95.  The  next  afternoon  he  boarded  a 
Chestnut  Street  car,  got  out  at  Front  Street, 
hurried  to  the  ferry  station,  and  caught  a  just 
departing  boat  for  Camden,  and  on  arriving  at 
the  other  side  of  the  Delaware,  made  haste  to 
find  a  seat  in  the  well-filled  express  train  bound 
for  Atlantic  City. 

While  he  was  being  whirled  across  the  level 
surface  of  New  Jersey,  past  the  cornfields  and  short 
stretches  of  green  trees  and  restful  cottage  towns, 
he  thought  of  the  pleasure  in  store  for  him  — 
the  meeting  with  the  young  person  whom  he  had 
gradually  come  to  consider  the  loveliest  girl  in 

3 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

the  world.  Having  neglected  to  read  the  list 
of  "  arrivals  "  in  the  newspapers,  he  knew  not 
at  what  hotel  she  and  her  aunt  were  staying. 
But  he  would  soon  make  the  rounds  of  the  large 
beach  hotels,  at  one  of  which  she  was  likely  to  be 
found. 

She  did  not  expect  to  see  him.  Therefore  her 
first  expression  on  beholding  him  would  betray 
her  feelings  toward  him,  whatever  they  were. 
Should  the  indication  be  favourable,  he  would 
propose  to  her  at  the  first  opportunity,  on  beach, 
boardwalk,  hotel  piazza,  pavilion,  yacht  or  in  the 
surf.  Such  were  the  meditations  of  Jack  Morrow 
while  the  train  roared  across  New  Jersey  to  the 
sea. 

The  first  sign  of  the  flat  green  meadows,  the 
smooth  waters  of  the  thoroughfare,  the  sails  afar 
at  the  inlet  and  the  long  side  of  the  sea-city 
stretching  out  against  the  sky  at  the  very  end  of 
the  earth  is  refreshing  and  exhilarating  to  any 
one.  It  gave  a  doubly  keen  enjoyment  to  Jack 
Morrow. 

"  Within  an  hour,  perhaps,"  he  mused,  as  the 
reviving  odour  of  the  salt  water  touched  his  nos- 
trils, "  I  shall  see  Edith." 

When  with  the  crowd  he  had  made  his  way  out 
of  the  train,  and  traversed  the  long  platform 

4 


THE  ONLY  GIRL  HE  EVER  LOVED 

at  the  Atlantic  City  station,  ignoring  the  sten- 
torian solicitations  of  the  'bus  drivers,  he  started 
walking  toward  the  ocean  promenade,  invited 
by  the  glimpse  of  sea  at  the  far  end  of  the  avenue. 
Thus  he  crossed  that  wide  thoroughfare  —  At- 
lantic Avenue  —  with  its  shops  and  trolley-cars ; 
passed  picturesque  hotels  and  cottages;  crossed 
Pacific  Avenue  where  carriages  and  dog-carts 
were  being  driven  rapidly  between  the  rows  of 
pretty  summer  edifices,  and  traversed  the  famously 
long  block  that  ends  at  the  boardwalk  and  the 
strand. 

He  succeeded  in  getting  a  third-floor  room 
on  the  ocean  side  of  the  first  hotel  where  he 
applied.  He  learned  from  the  clerk  that  Edith 
was  not  at  this  house.  Sea  air  having  revived  his 
appetite,  he  decided  to  dine  before  setting  out 
in  search  of  her. 

When,  after  his  meal,  he  reached  the  boardwalk, 
the  electric  lights  had  already  been  turned  on  and 
the  regular  evening  crowd  of  promenaders  was 
beginning  to  form.  He  strolled  along  now  looking 
at  the  beach  and  the  sea,  now  at  the  boardwalk 
crowd  where  he  might  perhaps  at  any  moment 
behold  the  face  of  "  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  world." 
He  beheld  instead,  as  he  approached  the  Tennessee 
pier,  the  face  of  his  friend  George  Haddon. 

5 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  Hello,  old  boy!  "  exclaimed  Morrow,  grasping 
his  friend's  hand.  "What  are  you  doing  here? 
I  thought  your  affairs  would  keep  you  in  New 
York  all  summer." 

"  So  they  would,"  replied  Haddon,  in  a  tone 
and  with  a  look  whose  distress  he  made  little  effort 
to  conceal.  "  But  something  happened." 

"  Why,  what  on  earth's  the  matter?  You 
seem  horribly  downcast." 

Haddon  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then  he  said 
suddenly : 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  have  to  tell  some- 
body or  it  will  split  my  head.  But  come  out  on 
the  pier,  away  from  the  noise  of  that  merry-go- 
round  organ." 

Neither  spoke  as  the  two  young  men  passed 
through  the  concert  pavilion  and  dancing  hall 
out  to  a  quieter  part  of  the  long  pier.  They  sat 
near  the  railing  and  looked  out  over  the  sea,  on 
which,  as  evening  fell,  the  rippling  band  of  moon- 
light grew  more  and  more  luminous.  They  could 
see,  at  the  right,  the  long  line  of  brilliant  lights 
on  the  boardwalk,  and  the  increasing  army  of 
promenaders.  Detached  from  the  furthest  end 
of  the  line  of  boardwalk  lights,  shone  those  of  dis- 
tant Longport.  Above  these,  the  sky  had  turned 
from  heliotrope  to  hues  dark  and  indefinable, 

6 


THE   ONLY   GIRL  HE  EVER  LOVED 

but  indescribably  beautiful.  Down  on  the  beach 
were  only  a  few  people,  strolling  near  the  tide 
line,  a  carriage,  a  man  on  horseback,  and  three 
frolicking  dogs. 

"  It's  simply  this,"  abruptly  began  Haddon. 
"  Six  weeks  ago  I  was  married  to  —  " 

"  Why,  I  never  heard  of  it.     Let  me  congrat —  " 

"  No,  don't,  I  was  married  to  a  comic  opera 
singer,  named  Lulu  Ray.  I  don't  suppose  you've 
ever  heard  of  her,  for  she  was  only  recently  pro- 
moted from  the  chorus  to  fill  small  parts.  We 
took  a  flat,  and  lived  happily  on  the  whole, 
for  a  month,  although  with  such  small  quarrels 
as  might  be  expected.  Two  weeks  ago  she  went 
out  and  didn't  come  back.  Since  then  I  haven't 
been  able  to  find  her  in  New  York  or  at  any  of  the 
resorts  along  the  Jersey  coast.  I  suppose  she  was 
offended  at  something  I  said  during  a  quarrel 
that  grew  out  of  my  insisting  on  our  staying  in 
New  York  all  summer.  Knowing  her  liking  for 
Atlantic  City  —  she  was  a  Philadelphia  girl  before 
she  went  on  the  stage  —  I  came  here  at  once  to 
hunt  her  up  and  apologize  and  agree  to  her 
terms." 

"  Well?  " 

"  Well,  I  haven't  found  her.  She's  not  at  any 
hotel  in  Atlantic  City.  I'm  going  back  to  New 

7 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

York  to-morrow  to  get  some  clue  as  to  where 

she  is." 

.    "I  suppose  you're  very  fond  of  her  still?  " 

"  Yes ;  that's  the  trouble.  And  then,  of  course, 
a  man  doesn't  like  to  have  a  woman  who  bears  his 
name  going  around  the  country  alone,  her  where- 
abouts unknown." 

Morrow  was  on  the  point  of  saying:  "  Or 
perhaps  with  some  other  man,"  but  he  checked 
himself.  He  was  sufficiently  mundane  to  refrain 
from  attempting  to  reason  Haddon  out  of  his 
affection  for  the  fugitive,  or  to  advise  him  as  to 
what  to  do.  He  knew  that  in  merely  letting 
Haddon  unburden  on  him  the  cause  of  anxiety, 
he  had  done  all  that  Haddon  would  expect  from 
any  friend. 

He  limited  himself,  therefore,  to  reminding 
Haddon  that  all  men  have  their  annoyances  in 
this  life;  to  treating  the  woman's  offence  as  light 
and  commonplace,  and  to  cheering  him  up  by 
making  him  join  in  seeing  the  sights  of  the  board- 
walk. 

They  looked  on  at  the  pier  hop,  while  Professor 
Willard's  musicians  played  popular  tunes;  re- 
turned to  the  boardwalk  and  watched  the  pretty 
girls  leaning  against  the  wooden  beasts  on  the 
merry-go-round  while  the  organ  screamed  forth, 

8 


THE  ONLY   GIRL   HE   EVER  LOVED 

"Daddy  Wouldn't  Buy  Me  a  Bow  Wow;"  ex- 
perienced that  not  very  illusive  illusion  known 
as  "  The  Trip  to  Chicago;  "  were  borne  aloft  on 
an  observation  wheel;  made  the  rapid  transit  of 
the  toboggan  slide,  visited  the  phonographs  and 
heard  a  shrill  reproduction  of  "  Molly  and  I  and 
the  Baby; "  tried  the  slow  and  monotonous 
ride  on  the  "  Figure  Eight,"  and  the  swift  and 
varied  one  on  the  switchback.  They  bought  salt- 
water taffy  and  ate  it  as  they  passed  down  the 
boardwalk  and  looked  at  the  moonlight.  Down 
on  the  Bowery-like  part  of  the  boardwalk  they 
devoured  hot  sausages,  and  in  a  long  pavilion 
drank  passable  beer  and  saw  a  fair  variety  show. 
Thence  they  left  the  boardwalk,  walked  to  At- 
lantic Avenue  and  mounted  a  car  that  bore  them 
to  Shauffler's,  where  among  light-hearted  beer 
drinkers  they  heard  the  band  play  "  Sousa's 
Cadet  March  "  and  "  After  the  Ball,"  and  so  they 
arrived  at  midnight. 

All  this  was  beneficial  to  Haddon  and  pleasant 
enough  in  itself,  but  it  prevented  Morrow  that 
night  from  prosecuting  his  search  for  the  loveliest 
girl  in  the  world.  He  postponed  the  search  to 
the  next  day.  And  when  that  time  came,  after 
Haddon  had  started  for  New  York,  occurred  an 


9 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

event  that  caused  Morrow  to  postpone  the  search 
still  further. 

He  had  decided  to  go  up  the  boardwalk  on  the 
chance  of  seeing  Edith  in  a  pavilion  or  on  the  beach. 
If  he  should  reach  the  vicinity  of  the  lighthouse 
without  finding  her,  he  would  turn  back  and  in- 
quire at  every  hotel  near  the  beach  until  he 
should  obtain  news  of  her. 

He  had  reached  Pennsylvania  Avenue  when  he 
was  attracted  by  the  white  tents  that  here  dotted 
the  wide  beach.  He  went  down  the  high  flight 
of  steps  from  the  boardwalk  to  rest  awhile  in  the 
shade  of  one  of  the  tents. 

Although  it  was  not  yet  n  o'clock,  several 
people  in  bathing  suits  were  making  for  the  sea. 
A  little  goat  wagon  with  children  aboard  was 
passing  the  tents,  and  after  it  came  the  cart  of  the 
"  hokey-pokey "  peddler,  drawn  by  a  donkey 
that  wore  without  complaint  a  decorated  straw 
bathing  hat.  Morrow,  looking  at  the  feet  of  the 
donkey,  saw  in  the  sand  something  that  shone 
in  the  sunlight.  He  picked  it  up  and  found 
that  it  was  a  gold  bracelet  studded  with  dia- 
monds. 

He  questioned  every  near-by  person  without 
finding  the  owner.  He  therefore  put  the  bracelet 
in  his  pocket,  intending  to  advertise  it.  Then 

10 


THE  ONLY  GIRL  HE  EVER  LOVED 

he  resumed  his   stroll   up  the  boardwalk.     He 
went  past  the  lighthouse  and  turned  back. 

He  had  reached  the  Tennessee  Avenue  pier 
without  having  found  the  loveliest  girl  in  the 
world.  His  eye  caught  a  small  card  that  had 
just  been  tacked  up  at  the  pier  entrance.  Ap- 
proaching it  he  read: 

"  Lost  —  On  the  beach  between  Virginia  and 
South  Carolina  Avenues,  a  gold  bracelet  with 
seven  diamonds.  A  liberal  reward  will  be  paid 
for  its  recovery  at  the Hotel." 

The  hotel  named  was  the  one  at  which  Morrow 
was  staying.  He  hurried  thither. 

"  Who  lost  the  diamond  bracelet?  "  he  asked 
the  clerk. 

"  That  young  lady  standing  near  the  elevator. 
Miss  Hunt,  I  think  her  name  is,"  said  the  clerk 
consulting  the  register.  "  Yes,  that's  it,  she  only 
arrived  last  night." 

Morrow  saw  standing  near  the  elevator  door, 
a  lithe,  well-rounded  girl  with  brown  hair  and 
great  gray  eyes  that  were  fixed  on  him.  She 
was  in  the  regulation  summer-girl  attire  —  blue 
Eton  suit,  pink  shirtwaist,  sailor  hat,  and  russet 
shoes.  He  hastened  to  her. 

"  Miss  Hunt,  I  have  the  honour  to  return  your 
bracelet." 

11 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

She  opened  her  lips  and  eyes  with  pleasurable 
surprise  and  reached  somewhat  eagerly  for  the 
piece  of  jewelry. 

"  Thank  you  ever  so  much.  I  took  a  walk  on 
the  beach  just  after  breakfast  and  dropped  it 
somewhere.  It's  too  large." 

"  I  picked  it  up  near  Pennsylvania  Avenue.  It's 
a  curious  coincidence  that  it  should  be  found  by 
some  one  stopping  at  the  same  hotel.  But,  pardon 
me,  you're  going  away  without  mentioning  the 
reward." 

She  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise,  until 
she  discovered  that  he  was  jesting.  Then  she 
smiled  a  smile  that  gave  Morrow  quite  a  pleasant 
thrill,  and  said,  with  some  tenderness  of  tone : 

"  Let  the  reward  be  what  you  please." 

"  And  that  will  be  to  do  what  you  shall  please 
to  have  me  do." 

"  Ah,  that's  nice.  Then  I  accept  your  services 
at  once.  I  am  quite  alone  here;  haven't  any  ac- 
quaintances in  the  hotel.  I  want  to  go  bathing 
and  I'm  rather  timid  about  going  alone,  although 
I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  do  so  and  was  just  going 
up  after  my  bathing  suit." 

'  Then  I  am  to  have  the  happiness  of  escorting 
you  into  the  surf." 

They  went  bathing  together  not  far  from  where 
12 


THE   ONLY   GIRL  HE   EVER  LOVED 

he  had  found  the  bracelet.  He  discovered  that 
she  could  swim  as  well  as  he ;  also  that  in  her  dark 
blue  bathing  costume,  with  sailor  collar  and  nar- 
row white  braid,  she  was  a  most  shapely  person. 

She  laughed  frequently  while  they  were  breast- 
ing the  breakers ;  and  afterwards,  as  in  their  street 
attire  they  were  returning  on  the  boardwalk, 
she  chatted  brightly  with  him,  revealing  a  certain 
cleverness  in  off-hand  persiflage. 

He  took  her  into  the  tent  behind  the  observation 
wheel  to  see  the  Egyptian  exhibition,  and  she  was 
good  enough  to  laugh  at  his  jokes  about  the  mum- 
mies, although  the  mummies  did  not  seem  to 
interest  her.  Further  down  the  boardwalk  they 
stopped  at  the  Japanese  exhibition,  and  on  the 
way  out  he  caught  himself  saying  that  if  it  were 
possible,  he  would  take  great  pleasure  in  hauling 
her  in  a  jinrikisha. 

"I'll  remember  that  promise  and  make  you 
push  me  in  a  wheel-chair,"  she  answered. 

When  they  were  back  at  the  hotel,  she  turned 
suddenly  and  said: 

"  By  the  way,  what's  your  name?  Mine's 
Clara  Hunt." 

He  told  her,  and  while  she  went  up  the  elevator 
with  her  bathing  suit,  he  arranged  with  the  head 
waiter  to  have  himself  seated  at  her  table. 

13 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

He  learned  from  the  clerk  that  she  had  arrived 
alone  with  a  letter  of  introduction  from  a  former 
guest  of  the  house,  and  intended  to  stay  at  least 
a  fortnight. 

At  luncheon  he  proposed  that  they  should  take 
a  sail  in  the  afternoon.  She  said,  with  a  smile: 

"As  it  is  you  who  invites  me,  I'll  give  up  my 
nap  and  go." 

They  rode  in  a  'bus  to  the  Inlet,  and  after 
spending  half  an  hour  drinking  beer  and  listening 
to  the  band  on  the  pavilion,  they  hired  a  skipper 
to  take  them  out  in  his  catboat.  Six  miles  out 
the  boat  pitched  considerably  and  Miss  Hunt 
increased  her  hold  on  Morrow's  admiration  by  not 
becoming  seasick.  At  his  suggestion  they  cast 
out  lines  for  bluefish.  She  borrowed  mittens  from 
the  captain  and  pulled  in  four  fish  in  quick  suc- 
cession. 

"  What  an  athletic  woman  you  are,"  said  Mor- 
row. 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"  In  fact,  everything  that's  charming,"  he  con- 
tinued. 

She  replied  softly:  "  Don't  say  that  unless 
you  mean  it.  It  pleases  me  too  much,  coming 
from  you." 

Morrow  mused:  "  Here's  a  girl  who  is  frank 
14 


THE   ONLY   GIRL  HE   EVER   LOVED 

enough  to  say  so  when  she  likes  a  fellow.  It 
makes  her  all  the  more  fascinating,  too.  Some 
women  would  make  me  very  tired  throwing  them- 
selves at  me  this  way.  But  it  is  different  with  her. ' ' 

They  gave  the  fish  to  the  captain  and  returned 
from  the  Inlet  by  the  Atlantic  Avenue  trolley, 
just  in  time  for  dinner.  She  did  not  lament  her 
lack  of  opportunity  to  change  her  clothes  for 
dinner,  nor  did  she  complain  about  the  coat  of 
sunburn  she  had  acquired. 

In  the  evening,  they  sat  together  for  a  time  on 
the  pier,  took  a  turn  together  at  one  of  the  waltzes, 
although  neither  cared  much  for  dancing  at  this 
time  of  year,  walked  up  the  boardwalk  and  com- 
pared the  moon  with  the  high  beacon  light  of  the 
lighthouse. 

He  bought  her  marshmallows  at  a  confec- 
tioner's booth,  a  fan  at  a  Japanese  store,  and  a 
queer  oriental  paper  cutter  at  a  Turkish  bazaar. 
They  took  two  switchback  rides,  during  which 
he  was  compelled  to  put  his  arm  around  her. 
Finally,  reluctant  to  end  the  evening,  they  stood 
for  some  minutes  leaning  against  the  boardwalk 
railing,  listening  to  the  moan  of  the  sea  and  watch- 
ing the  shaft  of  moonlight  stretching  from  beach 
to  horizon. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  alone  in  his  room  that 
15 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

Morrow  bethought  of  his  neglect  of  the  loveliest 
girl  in  the  world.  And  remorseful  as  he  was, 
he  did  not  form  any  distinct  intention  of  resuming 
his  search  for  her  the  next  day.  He  rather  con- 
gratulated himself  on  not  having  met  her  while 
he  was  with  this  enchanting  Clara  Hunt. 

And  he  passed  next  day  also  with  the  enchant- 
ing Clara  Hunt.  They  sat  on  the  piazza  together 
reading  different  parts  of  the  same  newspaper 
for  an  hour  after  breakfast;  went  to  the  board- 
walk and  turned  in  at  a  shuffle-board  hall,  where 
they  spent  another  hour  making  the  weights  slide 
along  the  sanded  board  and  then  took  another 
ocean  bath. 

After  luncheon  they  walked  up  the  boardwalk 
to  the  iron  pier. 

Seeing  the  lifeboat  there,  rising  and  falling  in  the 
waves,  Clara  asked: 

"  Would  the  lifeguard  take  us  in  his  boat  for 
a  while,  I  wonder?  " 

Morrow  went  down  to  the  beach  and  shouted 
to  the  lifeguard,  who  was  none  other  than  the 
robust  and  stentorian  Captain  Clark.  The  cap- 
tain brought  the  boat  ashore  and  as  there  were 
no  bathers  in  the  water  at  this  point,  he  agreed 
to  row  the  young  people  out  to  the  end  of  the  pier. 

11  This  is  a  great  place  for  brides  and  grooms 
16 


THE  ONLY  GIRL  HE  EVER  LOVED 

this  summer,"  remarked  the  captain  in  his  frank 
and  jocular  way. 

Clara  looked  at  Morrow  with  a  blush  and  a  laugh. 
Morrow  was  pleased  at  seeing  that  she  seemed 
not  displeased. 

"  We're  not  married,"  said  Morrow  to  the  cap- 
tain. 

"  Not  yet,  mebbe,"  said  the  captain  with  one 
of  his  significant  winks,  and  then  he  gave  vent 
to  loud  and  long  laughter. 

That  evening  Morrow  and  Clara  took  the 
steamer  trip  from  the  Inlet  to  Brigantine  and  the 
ride  on  the  electric  car  along  flat  and  sandy  Brigan- 
tine beach.  On  the  return,  they  became  very 
sentimental.  They  decided  to  walk  all  the  way 
from  the  Inlet  down  the  boardwalk.  He  found 
himself  quite  oblivious  to  the  crowd  of  promen- 
aders.  The  loveliest  girl  in  the  world  might 
have  passed  him  a  dozen  times  without  attracting 
his  attention.  He  had  eyes  and  ears  for  none  but 
Clara  Hunt. 

And  that  night,  far  from  reproaching  himself 
for  his  conduct  toward  the  loveliest  girl,  etc., 
he  hardly  thought  of  her  at  all,  more  than  to 
wonder  by  what  good  fortune  he  had  avoided 
meeting  her.  Some  of  the  people  at  their  hotel 
made  the  same  mistake  regarding  Morrow  and 

17 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

Clara  as  Captain  Clark  had  made;  the  two  were 
seen  constantly  together.  Others  thought  they 
were  engaged. 

Morrow  spoke  of  this  to  her  next  morning  as 
they  were  being  whirled  down  to  Longport  on  a 
trolley  car  along  miles  of  smooth  beach  and  stunted 
distorted  pine  trees.  "  I  heard  a  woman  on  the 
piazza  whisper  that  I  was  your  fianc6,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  what  if  you  were  —  I  mean  what  if 
she  did?  " 

At  Longport  they  took  the  steamer  for  Ocean 
City.  They  rode  through  that  quiet  place  of 
trees  and  cottages  on  the  electric  car,  returning  to 
the  landing  just  in  time  to  miss  the  11.50  boat  for 
Longport.  They  had  to  wait  an  hour  and  a  half 
and  they  were  the  only  people  there  who  were  not 
bored  by  the  delay.  They  returned  by  way  of 
Somers'  Point. 

While  the  boat  was  gliding  through  the  sunlit 
waters  of  Great  Egg  Harbour  Inlet,  Clara's  hand 
happened  to  fall  on  Morrow's,  which  was  resting 
on  the  gunwale.  She  let  her  hand  remain  there. 
Morrow  looked  at  it,  and  then  at  her  face.  She 
smiled.  When  the  Italian  violin  player  on  the 
boat  came  that  way,  Morrow  gave  him  a  dollar. 
Alas  for  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  world! 

They  passed  most  of  that  evening  in  a  board- 
18 


THE   ONLY   GIRL   HE  EVER  LOVED 

walk  pavilion,  ostensibly  watching  the  sea  and  the 
crowd.  They  went  up  the  thoroughfare  in  a  cat- 
boat  the  next  morning,  and,  strange  as  it  seemed 
to  them,  were  the  only  people  out  who  caught 
no  fish.  The  captain  winked  at  his  mate,  who 
grinned. 

In  the  afternoon,  while  Morrow  and  Clara  stood 
on  the  boardwalk  looking  down  at  the  Salvation 
Army  tent,  along  came  that  innocent  eccentric 
"  Professor  "  Walters  in  bathing  costume  and  with 
his  swimming  machine.  The  tall,  lean  whiskered, 
loquacious  "  Professor  "  had  made  Morrow's  ac- 
quaintance in  a  former  summer  and  now  greeted 
him  politely. 

"  How  d'ye  do?  "  said  the  "  Professor."  "  Glad 
to  see  you  here.  You  turn  up  every  year." 

"  You're  still  given  to  rhyming,"  commented 
Morrow. 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  rhyme  for  every  time,  in  pleasure 
or  sorrow.  Is  this  Mrs.  Morrow?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  ought  to  be  sorry  she  isn't,"  remarked 
the  "  Professor,"  taking  his  departure. 

Morrow  and  Clara  walked  on  in  silence.  At 
last  he  said  somewhat  nervously: 

"  Everybody  thinks  we're  married.  Why 
shouldn't  we  be?  " 

19 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

She  answered  softly,  with  downcast  eyes : 

"  I  would  be  willing  if  I  were  sure  of  one  thing." 

"What's  that?" 

"  That  you  have  never  loved  any  other  woman . 
Have  you?  " 

"  How  can  you  ask?  Believe  me,  you  are  the 
only  girl  I  have  ever  loved." 

That  evening,  after  dinner,  Morrow  and  Clara, 
the  newly  affianced,  about  starting  from  the  hotel 
to  the  boardwalk,  were  at  the  top  of  the  hotel  steps 
when  a  man  appeared  at  the  bottom. 

Morrow  uttered  a  cry  of  recognition. 

"  Why,  Haddon,  old  boy,  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  wife  that  is  to  be." 

Haddon  stood  still  and  stared.  Clara,  too, 
remained  motionless.  After  a  moment,  Haddon 
said  very  quietly : 

"  You're  mistaken.  Let  me  introduce  you  to 
my  wife  that  is." 

Morrow  looked  at  Clara.  She  turned  her  gray 
eyes  fearlessly  on  Haddon. 

"  You,  too,  are  mistaken,"  she  said.  "  I  had 
a  husband  before  you  married  me.  He's  my 
husband  still.  He's  doing  a  song  and  dance  act 
in  a  variety  theatre  in  Chicago.  I'm  sorry  about 
all  this,  Mr.  Morrow.  I  really  like  you.  Good- 
bye." 

20 


•v  i  • 

T 


,•.'.•  - 

i  «  , 

*^  •  ;WSV 


'  YOU,    TOO,   ARE    MISTAKEN,'    SHE    SAID.' 


THE   ONLY   GIRL   HE   EVER   LOVED 

She  ran  back  into  the  hotel  and  arranged  to 
make  her  departure  on  an  early  train  next  morn- 
ing. 

Haddon  turned  toward  the  boardwalk,  and 
Morrow,  quite  dazed,  involuntarily  followed  him. 
After  a  period  of  silence,  Morrow  said: 

"  This  is  astonishing.  A  bigamist,  and  a 
would-be  trigamist.  She  came  here  the  night 
before  you  left.  How  did  you  find  out  she  was 
here?  " 

"  I  read  it  in  the  Atlantic  City  letter  of  The 
Philadelphia  Press  that  one  of  the  Comic  Opera 
singers  daily  seen  on  the  boardwalk  is  Miss  Clara 
Hunt,  who  is  known  to  theatre-goers  by  her 
stage  name,  Lulu  Ray.  These  newspaper  cor- 
respondents know  some  of  the  obscurest  people. 
If  I  had  told  you  her  real  name,  you  would  have 
known  who  she  was  in  time  to  have  avoided  being 
taken  in  by  her." 

"  Her  having  another  husband  lets  you  out." 

"  Yes.  I'm  glad  and  sorry,  for  damn  it,  I  was 
fond  of  the  girl.  Excuse  me  awhile,  old  fellow. 
I  want  to  go  on  the  pier  and  think  awhile." 

Haddon  went  out  on  the  pier  and  looked  down 
on  the  incoming  waves  and  thought  awhile.  He 
found  it  a  disconsolate  occupation,  even  with  a 
cigar  to  sweeten  it.  So  he  came  back  and  mingled 

21 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

with  the  gay  crowd  on  the  boardwalk  and  tried 
to  forget  her. 

Morrow  had  no  sooner  left  Haddon  than  he  felt 
his  arm  touched.  Looking  around,  he  saw  the 
smiling  face  of  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  world. 

"  Well,  by  Jove,  Edith,"  he  said.  "  At  last 
I've  found  you!  " 

"  Yes.  I  heard  you  were  down  here.  You  see, 
I've  been  up  in  town  for  the  last  week.  Gracious, 
but  Philadelphia  is  hot!  Here's  Aunt  Laura." 

Morrow  spent  the  evening  with  Edith.  One 
night  a  week  later,  he  proposed  to  her  on  the  pier. 

"  I  will  say  yes,"  she  replied,  "  if  you  can  give 
me  your  assurance  that  you've  never  been  in  love 
with  any  one  else." 

"  That's  easily  given.  You  know  very  well 
you're  the  only  girl  I've  ever  loved." 


22 


A  BIT  OF  MELODY 


II 

A    BIT   OF    MELODY  T 

IT  was  twelve  o'clock  that  Sunday  night  when, 
leaving  the  lodging-house  for  a  breath  of  winter 
air  before  going  to  bed,  I  met  the  two  musicians 
coming  in,  carrying  under  their  arms  their  violins 
in  cases.  They  belonged  to  the  orchestra  at  the 

Theatre,  and  were  returning  from  a  dress 

rehearsal  of  the  new  comic  opera  that  was  to  be 
produced  there  on  the  following  night. 

Schaaf ,  who  entered  the  hallway  in  advance  of 
the  professor,  responded  to  my  greeting  in  his 
customary  gruff,  almost  suspicious  manner,  and 
passed  on,  turning  down  the  collar  of  his  overcoat. 
His  heavily  bearded  face  was  as  gloomy-looking 
as  ever  in  the  light  of  the  single  flickering  gaslight. 

The  professor,  although  by  birth  a  compatriot 
of  the  other,  was  in  disposition  his  opposite. 
In  his  courteous,  almost  affectionate  way,  he 

1  Copyrighted  by  J.  Brisbane  Walker,  and  used  by  the  courtesy 
of  the  Cosmopolitan  Magazine. 

25 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

stopped  to  have  a  word  with  me  about  the  coldness 
of  the  weather  and  the  danger  of  the  icy  pave- 
ments. "  I'm  t'ankful  to  be  at  last  home,"  he 
said,  showing  his  teeth  with  a  cordial  smile,  as 
he  removed  the  muffler  from  his  neck,  which  I 
thought  nature  had  sufficiently  protected  with  an 
ample  red  beard.  "  Take  my  advice,  my  frient, 
tempt  not  de  wedder.  Stay  warm  in  de  house 
andt  I  play  for  you  de  music  of  de  new  opera." 

"  Thanks  for  your  solicitude,"  I  said,  "  but  I 
must  have  my  walk.  Play  to  your  sombre  friend, 
Schaaf ,  and  see  if  you  can  soften  him  into  geniality. 
Good  night." 

The  professor,  with  his  usual  kindliness,  depre- 
cated my  thrust  at  the  taciturnity  of  his  country- 
man and  confrere,  with  a  gesture  and  a  look 
of  reproach  in  his  soft  gray  eyes,  and  we  parted. 
I  watched  him  until  he  disappeared  at  the  first 
turn  of  the  dingy  stairs. 

As  I  passed  up  the  street,  where  I  was  in  con- 
stant peril  of  losing  my  footing,  I  saw  his  windows 
grow  feebly  alight.  He  had  ignited  the  gas  in  his 
room,  which  was  that  of  the  professor's  sinister 
friend  Schaaf. 

My  regard  for  the  professor  was  born  of  his 
invariable  goodness  of  heart.  Never  did  I  know 
him  to  speak  an  uncharitable  word  of  any  one, 

26 


A   BIT   OF   MELODY 

while  his  practical  generosity  was  far  greater 
than  expected  of  a  second  violinist.  When  I 
commended  his  magnanimity  he  would  say,  with 
a  smile: 

"  My  frient,  you  mistake  altogedder.  I  am 
de  most  selfish  man.  Charity  cofers  a  multitude 
of  sins.  I  haf  so  many  sins  to  cofer." 

We  called  him  the  professor  because  besides 
fulfilling  his  nightly  and  matinee  duties  at  the 
theatre,  he  gave  piano  lessons  to  a  few  pupils, 
and  because  those  of  us  who  could  remember  his 
long  German  surname  could  not  pronounce  it. 

One  proof  of  the  professor's  beneficence  had 
been  his  rescue  of  his  friend  Schaaf  on  a  bench 
in  Madison  Square  one  day,  a  recent  arrival  from 
Germany,  muttering  despondently  to  himself. 
The  professor  learned  that  he  had  been  unable 
to  secure  employment,  and  that  his  last  cent  had 
departed  the  day  before.  The  professor  took  him 
home,  clothed  him  and  cared  for  him  until  event- 
ually another  second  violin  was  needed  in  the 
Theatre  orchestra. 

Schaaf  was  now  on  his  feet,  for  he  was  apt  at 
the  making  of  tunes,  and  he  picked  up  a  few 
dollars  now  and  then  as  a  composer  of  songs  and 
waltzes. 

All  of  which  has  little  to  do,  apparently,  with 
27 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

my  post-midnight  walk  in  that  freezing  weather. 
As  I  turned  into  Broadway,  I  was  surprised  to 
collide  with  my  friend  the  doctor. 

"  I  came  out  for  a  stroll  and  a  bit  to  eat,"  I  said. 
"  Won't  you  join  me?  I  know  a  snug  little  place 
that  keeps  open  till  two  o'clock,  where  devilled 
crabs  are  as  good  as  the  broiled  oyster." 

"  With  pleasure,"  he  replied,  cordially,  still 
holding  my  hand;  "  not  for  your  food,  but  for 
your  society.  But  do  you  know  what  you  did 
when  you  ran  against  me  at  the  corner?  For 
a  long  time  I've  been  trying  to  recall  a  certain 
tune  that  I  heard  once.  Three  minutes  ago,  as 
I  was  walking  along,  it  came  back  to  me,  and  I 
was  whistling  it  when  you  came  up.  You  knocked 
it  quite  out  of  mind.  I'm  sorry,  for  interesting 
circumstances  connected  with  my  first  hearing  of 
it  make  it  desirable  that  I  should  remember  it." 

"  I  can  never  express  my  regret,"  I  said.  "  But 
you  may  be  able  to  catch  it  again.  Where  were 
you  when  it  came  back  to  you  three  minutes 
ago?  " 

'  Two  blocks  away,  passing  a  church.  I  think 
it  was  the  shining  of  the  electric  light  upon  the 
stained  glass  window  that  brought  it  back  to  me, 
for  on  the  night  of  the  day  when  I  first  heard  it 
in  Paris  a  strong  light  was  falling  upon  the  stained 


A   BIT   OF   MELODY 

glass  windows  of  the  church  opposite  the  house  in 
which  I  had  apartments." 

"  Perhaps,  then,"  I  suggested,  "  the  law  of 
association  may  operate  again  if  you  take  the 
trouble  to  walk  back  and  repass  the  church  in  the 
same  manner  and  the  same  state  of  mind,  as  nearly 
as  you  can  resume  them." 

"  By  Jove,"  said  the  doctor,  who  likes  experi- 
ments of  this  kind,  "  I'll  try  it.  Wait  for  me  here." 

I  stood  at  the  corner  while  the  doctor  briskly 
retraced  his  steps.  His  firmly  built,  comfortable- 
looking  form  passed  rapidly  away.  Within  five 
minutes  he  was  back,  a  triumphant  smile  lighting 
his  face. 

"Success!"  he  said.  "I  have  it,  although 
whether  from  chance  or  as  a  result  of  repeating  my 
impression  of  light  falling  on  a  church  window 
I  can't  say.  Certainly,  after  all  these  years,  the 
tune  is  again  mine.  Listen." 

As  we  proceeded  up  the  street  the  doctor 
whistled  a  few  measures  composing  a  rather 
peculiar  melody,  expressive,  it  seemed  to  me,  of 
unrest.  I  never  forget  a  tune  I  have  once  heard, 
and  this  one  was  soon  fixed  in  my  memory. 

"  And  the  interesting  circumstances  under 
which  you  heard  it?  "  I  interrogated.  "  Surely 
after  the  concern  I've  shown  in  the  matter,  you're 

29 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

not  going  to  deprive  me  of  the  story  that  goes 
with  the  tune?  " 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should.  But  I  hope 
you  will  not  circulate  the  melody.  It  is  the  music 
that  accompanies  a  tragedy." 

"  Indeed?  You  have  written  one,  then?  It 
must  be  brief,  as  there  isn't  much  of  the  music." 

"  I  refer  to  a  tragedy  which  actually  occurred. 
Tragedies  in  real  life  are  not,  as  a  rule,  accom- 
panied by  music,  and,  to  be  accurate,  in  this  case 
music  preceded  the  tragedy.  Ten  years  ago,  when 
I  was  living  in  Paris,  apartments  adjoining  mine 
were  taken  by  a  musician  and  his  wife.  His  name, 
as  I  learned  afterward,  was  Heinrich  Spellerberg, 
and  he  came  from  Breslau.  The  wife,  a  very  young 
and  pretty  creature,  showed  herself,  by  her  attire 
and  manners,  to  be  frivolous  and  vain,  and  with- 
out having  more  than  the  slightest  acquaintance 
with  the  pair,  I  soon  learned  that  she  had  no 
knowledge  of  or  taste  for  music.  He  had  married 
her,  I  suppose,  for  her  beauty,  and  had  too  late 
discovered  the  incompatibility  of  their  tempera- 
ments. But  he  loved  her  passionately  and  jeal- 
ously. One  day  I  heard  loud  words  between  them, 
from  which  I  gathered  unintentionally  that  some- 
thing had  aroused  his  jealousy.  She  replied  with 
laughter  and  taunts  to  his  threats.  The  quarrel 

30 


A    BIT   OF   MELODY 

ended  with  her  abrupt  departure  from  the  room 
and  from  the  house. 

"  He  did  not  follow  her,  but  sat  down  at  the 
piano  and  began  to  play  in  the  manner  of  one  who 
improvises.  Correcting  the  melody  that  first 
responded  to  his  touch,  modifying  it  at  several 
repetitions,  he  eventually  gave  out  the  form 
that  I  have  just  whistled. 

"  Evening  came  and  the  wife  did  not  return. 
He  continued  to  play  that  strain  over  and  over, 
into  the  night.  I  dropped  my  book,  turned  down 
my  lamp  light,  and  stood  at  the  window,  looking 
at  the  church  across  the  way.  Suddenly  the  music 
ceased.  The  wife  had  returned.  '  Where  did  you 
dine? '  I  heard  him  ask.  I  could  not  hear  her 
reply,  but  the  next  speech  was  plainly  distin- 
guished. '  You  lie! '  he  said,  in  vehement  tone 

of  rage;  'you  were  with  .'  I  did  not 

catch  the  name  he  mentioned,  nor  did  I  know  what 
she  said  in  answer,  or  actually  what  happened. 
I  heard  only  a  confused  sound,  which  did  not 
impress  me  at  the  time  as  indicating  a  struggle, 
and  which  was  followed  by  silence.  I  imagined 
that  harmony  or  a  sullen  truce  had  been  restored 
in  the  household,  and  thought  no  more  about  the 
affair.  The  next  morning  the  wife  was  found  dead, 
strangled.  The  husband  had  disappeared,  and 

31 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

has    never,    I    believe,    been    heard    of   to    this 
day." 

We  reached  the  restaurant  as  the  doctor  finished 
his  story.  How  the  account  had  impressed  me  I 
need  not  tell.  Seated  in  the  warm  caf6,  with 
appetizing  viands  and  a  bottle  before  us,  I 
asked  the  doctor  to  tell  me  again  the  husband's 
name. 

"  Heinrich  Spellerberg." 

"  And  who  had  the  woman  been?  " 

"  I  never  ascertained.  She  was  a  vain,  insig- 
nificant, shallow  little  blonde.  The  Paris  news- 
papers could  learn  nothing  as  to  her  antecedents. 
She,  too,  was  German,  but  slight  and  delicate  in 
physique." 

"  You  didn't  save  any  of  the  newspapers  giving 
accounts  of  the  affair?  " 

"  No.  My  evidence  was  printed,  but  they 
spelled  my  name  wrong." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  exact  date  of  the 
murder?  " 

'  Yes,  because  it  was  the  birthday  of  a  friend 
of  mine.  It  was  February  17,  187-.  Twelve 
years  ago!  And  that  tune  has  been  with  me, 
off  and  on,  ever  since  —  forgotten,  most  of  the 
time;  a  few  times  recalled  —  as  to-night." 

"  And  the  man,  what  did  he  look  like?  " 
32 


A   BIT   OF   MELODY 

"  Slim  and  of  medium  height.  Very  light  com- 
plexion and  eyes.  His  face  was  entirely  smooth. 
His  hair,  a  bit  flaxen  in  colour,  was  curly  and 
plentiful,  especially  about  the  back  of  his  neck." 

"  In  your  evidence  did  you  say  anything  about 
the  strain  of  music,  which  was  manifestly  of  the 
murderer's  own  composition?  " 

"  No,  it  did  not  recur  to  me  until  later." 

"  And  nothing  was  said  about  it  by  anybody?  " 

"  No  one  but  myself  knew  anything  about  it  — 
except  the  murderer ;  and  unless  he  afterward  cir- 
culated it,  he  and  you  and  I  are  the  only  men  in 
the  world  who  have  heard  it." 

"  But  if  he  continued,  wherever  he  went,  to 
exercise  his  profession,  he  doubtless  made  some 
use  of  that  bit  of  melody.  The  tune  is  so  odd  — 
quite  too  good  for  him  to  have  wasted." 

"  Still,  neither  of  us  has  ever  heard  it,  or  any- 
thing like  it.  And  if  you  ever  should  come  upon 
it,  it  would  be  interesting  to  trace  the  thing, 
wouldn't  it?  " 

"  Rather." 

I  began  to  whistle  the  air  softly.  Presently  two 
handsome  girls,  with  jimp  raiment  and  fearless 
demeanour,  came  in  and  took  possession  of  an 
adjacent  table. 

"  What'll  it  be,  Nell?  " 
33 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  I'll  take  a  dozen  panned.  I'm  hungry  enough 
to  eat  all  the  oysters  that  ever  came  out  of 
the  sea.  A  rehearsal  like  that  gives  one  an  appe- 
tite." 

"A  dozen  panned,  and  lobster  salad  for  me, 
and  two  bottles  of  beer,"  was  the  order  of  the  first 
speaker  to  the  waiter. 

I  recognized  the  faces  as  pertaining  to  the 

chorus  of  the  opera  company  at  the  

Theatre.  I  stopped  whistling  while  I  watched 
them. 

Suddenly,  like  a  delayed  and  multiplied  echo 
of  my  own  whistling,  came  in  a  soft  hum  from 
one  of  the  girls  the  notes  of  the  doctor's  tragically 
associated  strain  of  music. 

The  doctor  and  I  exchanged  glances.  The  girl 
stopped  humming. 

"  I  think  that's  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  piece, 
Maude,"  said  she. 

Undoubtedly  it  was  the  comic  opera  to  be 

produced  at  the  Theatre  to  which  she 

alluded  as  "  the  piece." 

"  Amazing,"  I  said  to  the  doctor.  "  Millocker 
composed  the  piece  she's  talking  about.  Millocker 
never  killed  a  wife  in  Paris.  Nor  would  he  steal 
bodily  from  another.  Perhaps  the  thing  has  been 
interpolated  by  the  local  producer.  It  doesn't 

34 


A   BIT   OF   MELODY 

sound  quite  like  Millocker,  anyhow.  I  must  see 
about  this." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  To  the  Actors'  Club,  or  a  dozen  other  places, 
until  I  find  Harry  Griffiths.  He's  one  of  the  co- 
medians in  the  company  at  the Theatre, 

and  he  has  a  leading  part  in  that  piece  to-morrow 
night.  He'll  know  where  that  tune  came  from." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  the  amiable  doctor. 
"  But  I  must  go  home.  You  can  tell  me  the  result 
of  your  investigation  to-morrow.  It  may  lead 
to  nothing,  but  it  will  be  interesting  pastime." 

"  And  again,"  I  said,  putting  on  my  overcoat, 
"  it  may  lead  to  something.  I'll  see  you  to- 
morrow. Good  night." 

I  found  Griffiths  at  the  Actors'  Club,  telling 
stories  over  a  mutton-chop  and  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne. When  the  opportunity  came  I  drew  him 
aside. 

"  I  have  bet  with  a  man  about  a  certain  air  in 
the  new  piece.  He  says  it's  in  the  original  score, 
and  I  say  it's  introduced,  because  I  don't  think 
Millocker  did  it.  This  is  it,  and  I  whistled  it." 

"  Quite  right,  my  boy.  It's  not  in  the  original. 
Miss  Elton's  part  was  so  small  that  she  refused 
to  play  until  the  manager  agreed  to  let  her  fatten 
it  up.  So  Weinmann  composed  that  and  put  —  " 

35 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

"  This  Weinmann,"  I  interrupted,  abruptly, 
"  what  do  you  know  about  him?  Who  is  he?  " 

"  He's  Gustav  Weinmann,  the  new  musical 
director.  I  don't  know  anything  about  him.  He's 
not  been  long  in  the  country.  The  manager  found 
him  in  some  small  place  in  Germany  last  summer." 

"  How  old  is  he?    Where  does  he  live?  " 

"  Somewhat  in  forty,  I  should  say.  I  don't 
know  where  he  stays.  If  you  want  to  see  him, 
why  don't  you  come  to  the  theatre  when  he's 
there?  " 

"  Good  idea,  this.     Good  night." 

I  would  look  up  this  German  musician  who  had 
come  from  an  obscure  German  town.  I  would  go 
to  him  and  bluntly  say : 

"  Mr.  Weinmann,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  is  it 
true,  as  some  people  say  it  is,  that  your  real  name 
is  Heinrich  Spellerberg?  " 

Meanwhile  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  go  to 
bed. 

All  the  way  home  the  tune  rang  in  my  head. 
I  whistled  it  softly  as  I  began  to  undress,  until  I 
heard  the  sound  of  the  piano  in  the  parlour  down- 
stairs. Few  of  us  ever  touched  that  superan- 
nuated instrument.  The  only  ones  who  ever  did 
so  intelligently  were  Schaaf  and  the  professor.  The 
latter  was  wont  to  visit  the  piano  at  any  hour  of 

36 


A   BIT   OF   MELODY 

the  night.  We  all  were  used  to  his  way,  and  we 
liked  the  subdued  melodies,  the  dreamy  caprices, 
the  vague,  trembling  harmonies  that  stole  through 
the  silent  house. 

I  never  see  moonlight  stretching  its  soft  glory 
athwart  a  darkened  room  but  I  hear  in  fancy  the 
infinitely  gentle  yet  of  ten  thrilling  strains  that  used 
to  float  through  the  still  night  from  the  piano  as 
its  keys  took  touch  from  the  delicate  white  fingers 
of  the  professor. 

Suddenly  the  musical  summonings  of  the  player 
assumed  a  familiar  aspect,  —  that  of  the  tune 
which  I  had  been  singing  in  my  own  brain  for  the 
past  hour. 

Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  the  professor,  being 

a  second  violin  in  the  orchestra  at  the  

Theatre,  would  doubtless  know  more  about  the 
antecedents  of  the  new  musical  director  than 
Griffiths  had  been  able  to  tell  me.  This  was  the 
more  probable  as  the  professor  himself  had  come 
from  Germany. 

I  descended  the  stairs  softly,  traversed  the  hall- 
way, and,  looking  through  the  open  door,  beheld 
the  professor  at  the  piano. 

The  curtains  of  a  window  were  drawn  aside,  and 
the  moonlight  swept  grandly  in.  It  passed  over 
a  part  of  the  piano,  bathed  the  professor's  head 

37 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

in  soft  radiance,  fell  upon  the  carpet,  and  touched 
the  base  of  the  opposite  wall.  Upon  a  sofa,  half 
in  light,  half  in  shadow,  reclined  Schaaf,  who  had 
fallen  asleep  listening  while  the  professor  played. 

The  professor's  face  was  uplifted  and  calm. 
Rapture  and  pain  —  so  often  mutual  companions 
—  were  depicted  upon  it.  I  hesitated  to  break 
the  spell  which  he  had  woven  for  himself.  After 
watching  for  some  seconds,  however,  I  began 
quietly : 

"  Professor." 

The  tune  broke  off  with  a  jangling  discord,  and 
the  player  turned  to  face  me,  smiling  pleasantly. 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  went  on,  advancing  into  the 
room  and  standing  in  the  moonshine  that  he  might 
recognize  me,  "  but  I  was  attracted  by  the  air  you 
were  playing.  They  tell  me  that  it  isn't  Mil- 
locker's,  but  was  composed  by  your  new  con- 
ductor at  the " 

The  professor  answered  with  a  laugh: 

"  Ja !  He  got  de  honour  of  it.  Honour  is  sheap. 
He  buy  dat.  It  doesn't  matter." 

"  Ah,  then  it  isn't  his  own.  And  he  bought  the 
tune?  From  whom?  " 

"  Me." 

"  You?  " 

"  Ja.    And  I  have  many  oder  to  gif  sheap,  too." 
38 


THE    MAN    WAS   ON    HIS    KNEES. 


A   BIT   OF   MELODY 

"  But  where  did  you  get  it?  " 

"  I  make  it." 

"  When." 

"  Long  'go.  I  forget.  I  have  make  so  many. 
Dey  go  away  from  my  mindt  an'  come  again 
back  long  time  after." 

"  Professor,  what  would  you  give  me  to  tell 
you  where  and  when  you  composed  that  tune?  " 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  slightly  bewildered 
expression.  It  was  with  an  effort  that  I  continued, 
as  I  looked  straight  into  his  eyes : 

"  I  will  hazard  a  guess.  Could  it  have  been  in 
Paris  —  one  day  twelve  years  ago  —  " 

"  I  neffer  be  in  Paris,"  he  interrupted,  with  a 
start  which  shocked  and  convinced  me,  slight 
evidence  though  it  may  seem.  So  I  spoke  on : 

"  What,  never?  Not  even  just  that  night  — 
that  i yth  of  February?  Try  to  recall  it,  Heinrich 
Spellerberg.  You  remember  she  came  in  late, 
and  —  would  think  that  those  soft  white  fingers 
had  been  strong  enough?  " 

"  Hush,  my  friendt!  I  not  touch  her!  She 
kill  herself  —  she  try  to  hang  and  she  shoke  her 
neck.  No,  no,  to  you  I  vill  not  lie!  You  speak 
all  true!  Mein  Gott!  Vat  vill  you  do?  " 

The  man  was  on  his  knees.  I  thought  of  the 
circumstances,  the  persons  concerned,  the  high- 

39 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

strung,  sensitive  lover  of  music,  the  coarse,  de- 
risive, perhaps  faithless  woman,  and  I  replied 
quickly : 

"What  will  I  do?  Nothing  to-night.  It's 
none  of  my  business,  anyhow.  I'll  sleep  over  it 
and  tell  you  in  the  morning." 

I  left  him  alone. 

In  the  morning  the  professor's  door  stood  ajar. 
I  looked  in.  Man,  clothes,  violin  case,  and  valise 
had  gone.  Whither  I  have  not  tried  to  ascertain. 

When  the  new  opera  was  produced  that  evening 

the  Theatre  orchestra  was  unexpectedly 

minus  two  of  its  second  violins,  for  Schaaf,  half- 
distracted,  was  wandering  the  cold  streets  in  search 
of  his  friend. 


40 


ON  THE  BRIDGE 


Ill 

ON   THE    BRIDGE 

WHEN  I  tell  you,  my  only  friend,  to  whom  I 
so  rarely  write  and  whom  I  more  rarely  see,  that 
my  lonely  life  has  not  been  without  love  for 
woman,  you  will  perhaps  laugh  or  doubt. 

"  What,"  you  will  say,  "  that  gaunt  old  spectre 
in  his  attic  with  his  books,  his  tobacco,  and  his 
three  flower-pots !  He  would  not  know  that  there 
is  such  a  word  as  love,  did  he  not  encounter  it  now 
and  then  in  his  reading." 

True,  I  have  divided  my  days  between  the  books 
in  a  rich  man's  counting-room  and  those  in  my 
attic.  True,  again,  I  have  never  been  more  than 
merely  passable  to  look  at,  even  in  my  best  days. 

Yet  I  have  loved  a  woman. 

During  the  five  years  when  my  elder  brother 
lay  in  a  hospital  across  the  river,  where  he  died, 
it  was  my  custom  to  visit  him  every  Sunday.  I 
enjoyed  the  afternoon  walk  to  the  suburbs, 
when  the  air  has  more  of  nature  in  it,  especially 

43 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

that  portion  of  the  walk  which  lay  upon  the  bridge. 
More  life  than  was  usual  upon  the  bridge  moved 
there  on  Sunday.  Then  the  cars  were  crowded 
with  people  seeking  the  parks.  Many  crossed  on 
foot,  stopping  to  look  idly  down  at  the  dark  and 
sluggish  water. 

One  afternoon,  as  I  stood  thus  leaning  over  the 
parapet,  the  sound  of  woman's  gentle  laugh 
caused  me  to  turn  and  ocularly  inquire  its  source. 
The  woman  and  a  man  were  approaching.  At 
the  side  of  the  woman  walked  soberly  a  handsome 
dog,  a  collie.  There  was  that  in  their  appearance 
and  manner  which  plainly  told  me  that  here 
were  husband  and  wife,  of  the  middle  class,  in- 
telligent but  poor,  out  for  a  stroll.  That  they 
were  quite  devoted  to  each  other  was  easily  dis- 
coverable. 

The  man  looked  about  thirty  years  of  age,  was 
tall,  slender,  and  was  neither  strong  nor  handsome, 
but  had  an  amiable  face.  He  was  doubtless  a 
clerk  fit  to  be  something  better.  The  woman 
was  perhaps  twenty-four.  She  was  not  quite 
beautiful,  yet  she  was  more  than  pretty.  She 
was  of  good  size  and  figure,  and  the  short  plush 
coat  that  she  wore,  and  the  manner  in  which 
she  kept  her  hands  thrust  in  the  pockets 
thereof,  gave  to  her  a  dauntless  air  which  the 

44 


ON   THE   BRIDGE 

quiet  and  affectionate  expression  of  her  face  sof- 
tened. 

She  was  a  brunette,  her  eyes  being  large  and 
distinctly  dark  brown,  her  face  having  a  peculiar 
complexion  which  is  most  quickly  affected  by  any 
change  in  health. 

The  colour  of  her  cheek,  the  dark  rim  under  her 
eyes,  and  the  other  indefinable  signs,  indicated 
some  radical  ailment.  In  the  quick  glance  that 
I  had  of  that  pair,  while  the  woman  was  smiling, 
a  feeling  of  pity  came  over  me.  I  have  never 
detected  the  exact  cause  of  that  emotion.  Per- 
haps in  the  woman's  face  I  read  the  trace  of  past 
bodily  and  mental  suffering;  perhaps  a  subtle 
mark  that  death  had  already  set  there. 

Neither  the  woman  nor  her  husband  noticed 
me  as  they  passed.  The  dog  regarded  me  cau- 
tiously with  the  corner  of  his  eye.  I  probably 
would  never  have  thought  of  the  three  again  had 
I  not  seen  them  upon  the  bridge,  under  exactly 
the  same  circumstances,  on  the  next  Sunday. 

So  these  young  and  then  happy  people  walked 
here  every  Sunday,  I  thought.  This,  perhaps, 
was  an  event  looked  forward  to  throughout 
the  week.  The  husband,  doubtless,  was  kept 
a  prisoner  and  slave  at  his  desk  from  Monday 
morning  until  Saturday  night,  with  respite 

45 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

only  for  eating  and  sleeping.  Such  causes 
are  common,  even  with  people  who  can  think 
and  have  some  taste  for  luxury,  and  who  are 
not  devoid  of  love  for  the  beautiful. 

The  sight  of  happiness  which  exists  despite  the 
cruelty  of  fate  and  man,  and  which  is  temporarily 
unconscious  of  its  own  liabilities  to  interruption 
and  extinction,  invariably  fills  me  with  sadness, 
and  the  sadness  which  arose  at  the  contemplation 
of  these  two  beings  begat  in  me  a  strange  sym- 
pathy for  an  interest  in  them. 

On  Sundays  thereafter  I  would  go  early  to  the 
bridge  and  wait  until  they  passed,  for  it  proved 
that  this  was  their  habitual  Sunday  walk.  Some- 
times they  would  pause  and  join  those  who  gazed 
down  at  the  black  river.  I  would,  now  and  again, 
resume  my  journey  toward  the  hospital  while  they 
thus  stood,  and  I  would  look  back  from  a  distance. 
The  bridge  would  then  appear  to  me  an  abrupt 
ascent,  rising  to  the  dense  city,  and  their  figures 
would  stand  out  clearly  against  the  background. 

It  became  a  matter  of  care  to  me  to  observe 
each  Sunday  whether  the  health  of  either  had 
varied  during  the  previous  week.  The  husband, 
always  pale  and  slight,  showed  little  change  and 
that  infrequently.  But  the  fluctuations  of  the 
woman  as  indicated  by  complexion,  gait,  ex- 

46 


ON   THE   BRIDGE 

pression,  and  otherwise,  were  numerous  and  pro- 
nounced. Often  she  looked  brighter  and  more 
robust  than  on  the  preceding  Sunday.  Her  face 
would  be  then  rounded  out,  and  the  dark  crescents 
beneath  her  eyes  would  be  less  marked.  Then  I 
found  myself  elated. 

But  on  the  next  Sunday  the  cheeks  had  receded 
slightly,  the  healthy  lustre  of  the  eyes  had  given 
way  to  an  ominous  glow,  the  warning  of  death  had 
returned.  Then  my  heart  would  sink,  and,  sigh- 
ing, I  would  murmur  inaudibly: 

"  This  is  one  of  the  bad  Sundays." 

There  came  a  time  when  every  Sunday  was 
a  bad  one. 

What  made  me  love  this  woman?  Simply  the 
unmistakable  completeness  and  constancy  of 
her  devotion  to  her  husband,  —  the  absorption 
of  the  woman  in  the  wife.  Had  the  strange  ways 
of  chance  ever  made  known  to  her  my  feelings, 
and  had  she  swerved  from  that  devotion  even  to 
render  me  back  love  for  love,  then  my  own  adora- 
tion for  her  would  surely  have  departed. 

Yes,  I  loved  her,  —  if  to  fill  one's  life  with 
thoughts  of  a  woman,  if  in  fancy  to  see  her  face 
by  day  and  night,  if  to  have  the  will  to  die  for  her 
or  to  bear  pain  for  her,  if  those  and  many  more 
things  mean  love. 

47 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

My  richest  joy  was  to  see  her  content  with  her 
husband,  and  the  darkest  woe  of  my  life  was  to 
anticipate  the  termination  of  their  happiness. 

So  the  Sundays  passed.  One  afternoon  I 
waited  until  almost  dusk,  yet  the  couple  did  not 
appear. 

For  seven  Sundays  in  succession  I  did  not  meet 
them  upon  their  wonted  walk. 

On  the  eighth  Sunday  I  saw  the  dog  first,  then 
the  man.  The  latter  was  looking  over  the  railing. 
The  woman  was  not  with  him.  Apprehensively 
I  sought  with  my  eyes  his  face.  Much  grief  and 
loneliness  were  depicted  there. 

Was  he  or  I  the  greater  mourner?    I  wondered. 

I  suppose  two  years  passed  after  that  day  ere 
I  again  beheld  the  widower  —  whose  name  I 
did  not  and  probably  never  shall  know  —  upon  the 
bridge.  The  dog  was  not  with  him  this  time.  It 
was  a  fine,  sunny  afternoon  in  May.  Grief  was  no 
longer  in  his  face.  By  his  side  was  a  very  pretty, 
animated,  rosy  little  woman  whom  I  had  never 
seen  before.  They  walked  close  to  each  other, 
and  she  looked  with  the  utmost  tenderness  into 
his  face.  She  evidently  was  not  yet  entirely 
accustomed  to  the  wedding-ring  which  I  observed 
on  her  finger. 

I  think  that  tears  came  to  my  eyes  at  this  sight. 
48 


ON   THE   BRIDGE 

Those  great  brown  eyes,  the  plush  sack,  the  lovely 
face  that  had  borne  the  impress  of  sorrow  so 
speedily,  had  felt  death  —  those  might  never  have 
existed,  so  soon  had  they  been  forgotten  by  the 
one  being  in  the  world  for  whom  that  face  had 
worn  the  aspect  of  a  perfect  love. 

Yet  one  upon  whom  those  eyes  never  rested 
has  remembered.  And  surely  the  memory  of  her 
is  mine  to  wed,  since  he,  whose  right  was  to  cherish 
it,  has  allowed  himself  to  be  divorced  from  it  in 
so  brief  a  time. 

The  memory  of  her  is  with  me  always,  fills 
my  soul,  beautifies  my  life,  makes  green  and  radi- 
ant this  existence  which  all  who  know  me  think 
cold,  bleak,  empty,  repellent. 

You  will  not  laugh,  then,  my  friend,  when  I 
tell  you  that  love  is  not  to  me  a  thing  unknown. 

So  runs  a  part  of  the  last  letter  to  my  father 
that  the  old  bookkeeper  ever  wrote. 


49 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  MOGLEY 


IV 

THE    TRIUMPH    OF   MOGLEY  * 

MR.  MOGLEY  was  an  actor  of  what  he  termed  the 
"  old  school."  He  railed  against  the  prevalence 
of  travelling  theatrical  troupes,  and  when  he 
attitudinized  in  the  barroom,  his  left  elbow  upon 
the  brass  rail,  his  right  hand  encircling  a  glass 
of  foaming  beer,  he  often  clamoured  for  a  return 
of  the  system  of  permanently  located  dramatic 
companies,  and  sighed  at  the  departure  of  the 
"  palmy  days." 

A  picturesque  figure,  typical  of  an  almost 
bygone  race  of  such  figures,  was  Mogley  at  these 
moments,  his  form  being  long  and  attenuated, 
his  visage  smooth  and  of  angular  contour,  his 
facial  mildness  really  enhanced  by  the  severity 
which  he  attempted  to  impart  to  his  countenance 
when  he  conversed  with  such  of  his  fellow  men  as 
were  not  of  "  the  profession." 

1  Courtesy  of  Lippincotf  s  Magazine.     Copyright,  1892,  by  J.  B. 
Lippincott  Company. 

53 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

Like  Mogley's  style  of  acting,  his  coat  was 
old.  But,  although  neither  he  nor  any  of  his  ac- 
quaintances suspected  it,  his  heart  was  young. 
He  still  waited  and  hoped. 

For  Mogley's  long  professional  career  had  not 
once  been  brightened  by  a  distinct  success.  He 
had  never  made  what  the  men  and  women  of  his 
occupation  designate  a  hit,  or  even  what  the 
dramatic  critics  wearily  describe  as  a  "  favourable 
impression."  This  he  ascribed  to  lack  of  oppor- 
tunity, as  he  was  merely  human.  Mr.  and  Mrs 
Mogley  eagerly  sent  for  the  newspapers  on  the 
morning  after  each  opening  night  and  sought  the 
notices  of  the  performance.  These  records  never 
contained  a  word  of  either  praise  or  censure  for 
Mogley. 

Mrs.  Mogley  had  first  met  Mogley  when  she  was 
a  soubrette  and  he  a  "  walking  gentleman."  It 
was  his  Guildenstern  (or  it  may  have  been  his 
Rosencrantz)  that  had  won  her.  Shortly  after 
their  marriage  there  came  to  her  that  life-ailment 
which  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  continue 
acting.  She  had  swallowed  her  aspirations, 
shedding  a  few  tears.  She  lived  in  the  hope 
of  his  triumph,  and,  as  she  had  more  time  to 
think  than  he  had,  she  suffered  more  keenly 
the  agony  of  yearning  unsatisfied. 

54 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   MOGLEY 

She  was  a  little,  fragile  being,  with  large  pale 
blue  eyes,  and  a  face  from  which  the  roses  had 
fled  when  she  was  twenty.  But  she  was  very  much 
to  Mogley:  she  did  his  planning,  his  thinking, 
the  greater  part  of  his  aspiring.  She  always  ac- 
companied him  upon  tours,  undergoing  cheerfully 
the  hard  life  that  a  player  at  "  one-night  stands  " 
must  endure  in  the  interest  of  art. 

This  continued  through  the  years  until  last 
season.  Then  when  Mogley  was  about  to  start 
"  on  the  road  "  with  the  "  Two  Lives  for  One  " 
Company,  the  doctor  said  that  Mrs.  Mogley 
would  have  to  stay  in  New  York  or  die,  —  per- 
haps die  in  any  event.  So  Mogley  went  alone, 
playing  the  melodramatic  father  in  the  first  act, 
and  later  the  secondary  villain,  who  in  the  end 
drowns  the  principal  villain  in  the  tank  of  real 
water,  while  his  heart  was  with  the  pain-racked 
little  woman  pining  away  in  the  small  room  at  the 
top  of  the  dingy  theatrical  boarding-house  on 
Eleventh  Street. 

The  "  Two  Lives  for  One  "  Company  "  col- 
lapsed," as  the  newspapers  say,  in  Ohio,  three 
months  after  its  departure  from  New  York;  this 
notwithstanding  the  tank  of  real  water.  Mogley 
and  the  leading  actress  overtook  the  manager 
at  the  railway  station,  as  he  was  about  to  flee, 

55 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

and  extorted  enough  money  from  him  to  take 
them  back  to  New  York. 

Mogley  had  not  returned  too  soon  to  the  small 
room  at  the  top  of  the  house  on  Eleventh  Street. 
He  turned  paler  than  his  wife  when  he  saw  her 
lying  on  the  bed.  She  smiled  through  her  tears,  — 
a  really  heartrending  smile. 

"  Yes,  Tom,  I've  changed  much  since  you  left, 
and  not  for  the  better.  I  don't  know  whether  I 
can  live  out  the  season." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Alice,  for  God's  sake!  " 

"  I  would  be  resigned,  Tom,  if  only  —  if  only 
you  would  make  a  success  before  I  go." 

"  If  only  I  could  get  the  chance,  Alice!  " 

As  the  days  went  by,  Mrs.  Mogley  rapidly  grew 
worse.  She  seemed  to  fail  perceptibly.  But 
Mogley  had  to  seek  an  engagement.  They  could 
not  live  on  nothing.  Mrs.  Jones  would  wait  with 
the  daily  increasing  board-bill,  but  medicine 
required  cash.  Each  evening,  when  Mogley  re- 
turned from  his  tour  of  the  theatrical  agencies 
of  Fourteenth  Street  and  of  Broadway,  the  ill 
woman  put  the  question,  almost  before  he  opened 
the  door: 

"Anything  yet?  " 

"  Not  yet.  You  see  this  is  the  bad  part  of  the 
season.  Ah,  the  profession  is  overcrowded!  " 

56 


THE   TRIUMPH    OF    MOGLEY 

But  one  Monday  afternoon  he  rushed  up  the 
stairs,  his  face  aglow.  In  the  dark,  narrow  hall- 
way on  the  top  floor  he  met  the  doctor. 

"  Mrs.  Mogley  has  had  a  sudden  turn  for  the 
worse,"  said  the  physician,  abruptly.  "  I'm 
afraid  she  won't  live  until  midnight." 

Doctors  need  not  give  themselves  the  trouble 
to  "  break  news  gently  "  in  cases  where  they 
stand  small  chances  of  remuneration. 

Mogley  staggered.  It  was  cruel  that  this  should 
occur  just  when  he  had  such  good  news.  But  an 
idea  occurred  to  him.  Perhaps  the  good  news 
would  reanimate  her. 

"  Alice,"  he  cried,  as  he  threw  open  the  door, 
"  you  must  get  well!  My  chance  has  come.  The 
tide,  which  taken  at  the  flood  leads  on  to  fortune, 
is  here." 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  trembling.  "  What  is  it, 
Tom?  " 

"  This.  Young  Hopkins  asked  me  to  have  a 
drink  at  the  Hoffman  this  afternoon,  and,  while 
I  was  in  there,  Hexter,  who  managed  the  '  Silver 
King  '  Company  the  season  I  played  Coombe, 
came  in  all  rattled.  '  Why  this  extravagant 
wrath? '  Hopkins  asked,  in  his  picturesque  way. 
Then  Hexter  explained  that  his  revival  of  Wilkins' 
old  burlesque  on  '  Faust '  couldn't  be  put  on  to- 

57 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

night,  because  Renshaw,  who  was  to  be  the 
Mephisto,  was  too  sick  to  walk.  '  No  one  else 
knows  the  part,'  Hexter  said.  Then  I  told  him 
I  knew  the  part;  how  I'd  played  Valentine  to 
Wilkins'  Mephisto  when  the  piece  was  first  pro- 
duced before  these  Gaiety  people  brought  their 
'  Faust  up-to-date  '  from  London.  You  remember 
how,  as  Wilkins  was  given  to  late  dinners  and  too 
much  ale,  he  made  me  understudy  his  Mephisto, 
and  if  the  piece  had  run  more'n  two  weeks,  I'd 
probably  had  a  chance  to  play  it.  Well,  Hexter 
said,  as  everything  was  ready  to  put  on  the  piece, 
if  I  thought  I  was  up  in  the  part,  he'd  let  me 
try  it.  So  we  went  to  Renshaw's  room  and  got 
the  part  and  here  it  is." 

"  But,  Tom,  burlesque  isn't  in  your  line." 
"  Isn't  it?  Anything's  in  my  line.  '  Versa- 
tility is  the  touchstone  of  power.'  That's 
where  we  of  the  old  stock  days  come  in!  Besides, 
burlesque  is  the  thing  now.  Look  at  Leslie,  and 
Wilson,  and  Hopper,  and  Powers.  They're  th^ 
men  who  draw  the  salaries  nowadays.  If  I  make 
a  hit  in  this  part,  my  fortune  is  sure." 

"  But   Hexter 's  Theatre  is  on  the  Bowery." 

"  That  doesn't  matter.    Hexter  pays  salaries." 

Objections  like  this  last  one  had  often  been 

made,  and  as  often  overcome  in  the  same  words. 

58 


THE   TRIUMPH    OF    MOGLEY 

"  And  then  besides  —  why,  Alice,  what's  the 
matter?  " 

She  had  fallen  back  on  the  bed  with  a  feeble 
moan.  He  leaned  over  her.  Slowly  she  opened 
her  eyes. 

"  Tom,  I'm  afraid  I'm  dying." 

Then  Mogley  remembered  the  doctor's  words. 
Alice  dying!  Life  was  hard  enough  even  when 
he  had  her  to  sustain  his  courage.  What  would 
it  be  without  her? 

The  typewritten  part  had  fallen  on  the  bed. 
He  pushed  it  aside. 

"  Hexter  and  his  Mephisto  be  d — d!  "  said 
Mogley.  ' '  I  shall  stay  at  home  with  you  to-night. ' ' 

"No,  no,  Tom:  your  one  chance,  remember! 
If  you  should  make  a  hit  before  I  die,  I  could  go 
easier.  It  would  brighten  the  next  world  for  me 
until  you  come  to  join  me." 

Mogley's  weaker  will  succumbed  to  hers.  So, 
with  his  right  hand  around  Mrs.  Mogley's  wrist, 
turning  his  eyes  now  and  then  to  the  clock  in  the 
steeple  which  was  visible  through  the  narrow 
window,  that  he  might  know  when  to  administer 
her  medicine,  he  held  his  "  part  "  in  his  left  hand 
and  refreshed  his  recollection  of  the  lines. 

At  seven  o'clock,  with  a  last  pressure  of  her  thin 
fingers,  a  kiss  upon  her  cheek  where  a  tear  lay, 

59 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

he  left  her.     He  had  thought  she  was  asleep, 
but  she  murmured: 

"  May  God  help  you  to-night.  Tom!  My 
thoughts  will  be  at  the  theatre  with  you.  Good- 
bye." 

Mrs.  Jones's  daughter  had  promised  to  look 
in  at  Mrs.  Mogley  now  and  then  during  the  eve- 
ning, and  to  give  her  the  medicine  at  the  proper 
intervals. 

Mogley  reported  to  the  stage  manager,  who 
showed  him  Renshaw's  dressing-room  and  gave 
him  Renshaw's  costume  for  the  part.  His  mind 
ever  turning  back  to  the  little  room  at  the  top 
of  the  house  and  then  to  the  words  and  "  business  " 
of  his  part,  he  got  into  Renshaw's  red  tights  and 
crimson  cape.  Then  he  donned  the  scarlet  cap 
and  plume  and  pasted  the  exaggerated  eyebrows 
upon  his  forehead,  while  the  stage  manager  stood 
by,  giving  him  hints  as  to  new  "  business  "  in- 
vented by  Renshaw. 

"  You  have  the  stage  to  yourself,  you  know, 
at  that  time,  for  a  specialty." 

"  Yes,  I'll  sing  the  song  Wilkins  did  there.  I 
see  it's  marked  in  the  part  and  the  orchestra 
must  be  '  up  '  in  it.  In  the  second  act  I'll  do 
some  imitations  of  actors." 

At  eight  he  was  ready  to  go  on  the  stage. 
60 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   MOGLEY 

"  May  God  be  with  you!  "  reechoed  in  his  ear,  — 
the  echo  of  a  weak  voice  put  forth  with  an 
effort. 

He  heard  the  stage  manager  in  front  of  the  cur- 
tain announcing  that,  "  owing  to  Mr.  Renshaw's 
sudden  illness,  the  talented  comedian,  Mr.  Thomas 
Mogley,  had  kindly  consented  to  play  Mephisto, 
at  short  notice,  without  a  rehearsal." 

He  had  never  heard  himself  called  a  talented 
comedian  before,  and  he  involuntarily  held  his 
head  a  trifle  higher  as  the  startling  and  delicious 
words  reached  his  ears. 

The  opening  chorus,  the  witless  dialogue  of 
secondary  personages,  then  an  almost  empty 
stage,  old  Faust  alone  remaining,  and  the  en- 
trance of  Mephisto. 

Some  applause  that  came  from  people  that  had 
not  heard  the  preliminary  announcement,  and 
whose  demonstration  was  intended  for  Renshaw, 
rather  disconcerted  Mogley.  Then,  ere  he  had 
spoken  a  word,  or  his  eyes  had  ranged  over  the 
hazy  lighted  theatre  on  the  other  side  of  the 
footlights,  there  sounded  in  the  depths  of  his 
brain: 

"  My  thoughts  will  be  at  the  theatre  with  you!  " 

There  were  many  vacant  seats  in  the  house. 
He  singled  out  one  of  them  on  the  front  row  and 

61 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

imagined  she  was  in  it.  He  would  play  to  that 
vacant  seat  throughout  the  evening. 

In  all  burlesques  of  "  Faust  "  the  r61e  of  Me- 
phisto  is  the  leading  comic  figure.  The  actor  who 
assumes  it  undertakes  to  make  people  laugh. 

Mogley  made  people  laugh  that  night,  but  it 
was  not  his  intentional  humourous  efforts  that 
excited  their  hilarity.  It  was  the  man  himself. 
They  began  by  jeering  him  quietly.  Then  the 
gallery  grew  bold. 

"  Ah  there,  Edwin  Booth!  "  sarcastically  yelled 
an  urchin  aloft. 

"  Oh,  what  a  funny  little  man  he  is!  "  ironically 
quoted  another  from  a  song  in  one  of  Mr.  Hoyt's 
farces,  alluding  to  Mogley's  spare  if  elongated 
frame. 

"  He  t'inks  dis  is  a  tragedy,"  suggested  a 
Bowery  youth. 

But  Mogley  tried  not  to  heed. 

In  the  second  act  some  one  threw  an  apple 
at  him.  Mogley  laboured  zealously.  The  ribald 
gallery  had  often  been  his  foe.  Wait  until  such 
and  such  a  scene!  He  would  show  them  how  a 
pupil  of  the  old  stock  companies  could  play 
burlesque !  Song  and  dance  men  from  the  varieties 
had  too  long  enjoyed  undisputed  possession  of  that 
form  of  drama. 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   MOGLEY 

But,  one  by  one,  he  passed  his  opportunities 
without  capturing  the  house.  Nearer  came  the 
end  of  the  piece.  Slimmer  grew  his  chance  of 
making  the  longed-for  impression.  The  derision 
of  the  audience  increased.  Now  the  gallery  made 
comments  upon  his  personal  appearance. 

"  He  could  get  between  raindrops,"  yelled  one, 
applying  a  recent  speech  of  Edwin  Stevens,  the 
comic  opera  comedian. 

And  at  home  Mogley's  wife  was  dying  —  hold- 
ing to  life  by  sheer  power  of  will,  that  she  might 
rejoice  with  him  over  his  triumph.  Tears  blinded 
his  eyes.  Even  the  other  members  of  the  com- 
pany were  laughing  at  his  discomfiture. 

Only  a  little  brunette  in  pink  tights  who  played 
Siebel,  and  whom  he  had  never  met  before,  had 
a  look  of  sympathy  for  him. 

"  It's  a  tough  audience.  Don't  mind  them," 
she  whispered. 

Mogley  has  never  seen  or  heard  of  the  little 
brunette  since.  But  he  anticipates  eventually 
to  behold  her  ranking  first  after  Alice  among  the 
angels  of  heaven. 

The  curtain  fell  and  Mogley,  somewhat  dazed 
in  mind,  mechanically  removed  his  apparel, 
washed  off  his  "  make-up,"  donned  his  worn 


63 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

street  attire  and  his  haughty  demeanour,  and 
started  for  home. 

Home!  Behind  him  failure  and  derision.  Before 
him,  Alice,  dying,  waiting  impatiently  his  return, 
the  news  of  his  triumph. 

"  We  won't  need  you  to-morrow  night,  Mr. 
Mogley,"  said  the  stage  manager  as  he  reached 
the  stage  door.  "  Mr.  Hexter  told  me  to  pay  you 
for  to-night.  Here's  your  money  now." 

Mogley  took  the  envelope  as  in  a  dream, 
answered  not  a  word,  and  hastened  homeward. 
He  thought  only : 

"  To  tell  her  the  truth  will  kill  her  at  once.' 

Mrs.  Mogley  was  awake  and  in  a  fever  of 
anticipation  when  Mogley  entered  the  little 
room.  She  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  staring  at  him 
with  shining  eyes. 

"  Well,  how  was  it?  "  she  asked,  quickly. 

Mogley's  face  wore  a  look  of  jubilant  joy. 

"  Success!  "  he  cried.  "  Tremendous  hit!  The 
house  roared!  Called  before  the  curtain  four  times 
and  had  to  make  a  speech!  " 

Mogley's  esctasy  was  admirably  simulated.  It 
was  a  fine  bit  of  acting.  Never  before  or  since 
did  Mogley  rise  to  such  a  height  of  dramatic 
illusion. 

"  Ah,  Tom,  at  last,  at  last!  And,  now,  I  must 
64 


IT    WAS    A    FINE    BIT    OF    ACTING. 


THE   TRIUMPH    OF   MOGLEY 

live   till    morning,    to    read    about    it    in    the 
papers!  " 

Mogley's  heart  fell.  If  the  papers  would  men- 
tion the  performance  at  all,  they  would  dismiss 
it  in  three  or  four  lines,  bestowing  perhaps  a  word 
of  ridicule  upon  him.  She  was  sure  to  see  one 
paper,  the  one  that  the  landlady's  daughter  lent 
her  every  day. 

Mogley  looked  at  the  illuminated  clock  on  the 
steeple  across  the  way.  A  quarter  to  twelve. 

"  My  love,"  he  said,  "  I  promised  Hexter  I 
would  meet  him  to-night  at  the  Five  A's  Club, 
to  arrange  about  salary  and  so  forth.  I'll  be  gone 
only  an  hour.  Can  you  do  without  me  that  long  ? ' ' 
'  Yes,  go ;  and  don't  let  him  have  you  for  less 
than  fifty  dollars  a  week." 

Shortly  after  midnight  the  dramatic  editor 
of  that  newspaper  Miss  Jones  daily  lent  to  Mrs. 
Mogley,  having  sent  up  the  last  page  of  his  notice 
of  the  new  play  at  Palmer's,  was  confronted  by 
the  office-boy  ushering  to  the  side  of  his  desk  a  tall, 
spare,  smooth-faced  man  with  a  sober  countenance, 
an  ill-concealed  manner  of  being  somewhat  over- 
awed by  his  surroundings,  and  a  coat  frayed  at 
the  edges. 

"I'm  Mr.  Thomas  Mogley,"  said  this  apparition. 

"Ah!   Have  a  cigarette,  Mr.  Mogley?  "  replied 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

the  dramatic  editor,  absently,  lighting  one  him- 
self. 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  I  was  this  evening,  but  am 
not  now,  the  leading  comedian  of  the  company 

that  played  Wilkins's  '  Faust '  at  the  

Theatre.  I  played  Mephisto."  (He  had  begun 
his  speech  in  a  dignified  manner,  but  now  he  spoke 
quickly  and  in  a  quivering  voice.)  "  I  was  a  fail- 
ure —  a  very  great  failure.  My  wife  is  extremely 
ill.  If  she  knew  I  was  a  failure,  it  would  kill  her, 
so  I  told  her  I  made  a  success.  I  have  really  never 
made  a  success  in  my  life.  She  is  sure  to  read 
your  paper  to-morrow.  Will  you  kindly  not  speak 
of  my  failure  in  your  criticism  of  the  performance? 
She  cannot  live  later  than  to-morrow  morning,  and 
I  should  not  like  —  you  see  —  I  have  never 
deigned  to  solicit  favours  from  the  press  before, 
sir,  and  —  " 

"  I  understand,  Mr.  Mogley.  It's  very  late, 
but  I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

Mogley  passed  out,  walking  down  the  five 
flights  of  stairs  to  the  street,  forgetful  of  the 
elevator. 

The  dramatic  editor  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Half- 
past  twelve,"  he  said;  then,  to  a  man  at  another 
desk: 

"  Jack,  I  can't  come  just  yet.  I'll  meet  you  at 
66 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   MOGLEY 

the  club.  Order  devilled  crabs  and  a  bottle  of 
Bass  for  me." 

He  ran  up-stairs  to  the  night  editor.  "  Mr. 
Dorney,  have  you  the  theatre  proofs?  I'd  like 
to  make  a  change  in  one  of  the  theatre  no- 
tices." 

"  Too  late  for  the  first  edition,  my  boy.  Is  it 
important?  " 

"  Yes,  an  exceptional  case.  I'll  deem  it  a  per- 
sonal favour." 

"  All  right.  I'll  get  it  in  the  city  edition.  Here 
are  the  proofs." 

"  Let's  see,"  mused  the  dramatic  editor,  look- 
ing over  the  wet  proofs.  "  Who  covered  the 

Theatre  to-night?  Some  one  in  the  city 

department.  I  suppose  he  '  roasted '  Gugley, 
or  whatever  his  name  is.  Ah,  here  it  is." 

And  he  read  on  the  proof: 

"  The  revival  of  an  ancient  burlesque  on  '  Faust* 

at  the Theatre  last  night  was  without  any 

noteworthy  feature  save  the  pitiful  performance 
of  the  part  of  Mephisto  by  a  doleful  gentleman 
named  Thomas  Mogley,  who  showed  not  the 
faintest  of  humour  and  who  was  tremendously 
guyed  by  a  turbulent  audience.  Mr.  Mogley  was 
temporarily  taking  the  place  of  William  Renshaw, 
a  funmaker  of  more  advanced  methods,  who  will 

67 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

appear  in  the  r61e  to-night.  There  are  some 
pretty  girls  and  agile  dancers  in  the  company." 

Which  the  dramatic  editor  changed  to  read  as 
follows : 

"  The  revival  of  a  familiar  burlesque  on  '  Faust ' 

at  the Theatre  last  night  was  distinguished 

by  a  decidedly  novel  and  original  embodiment 
of  Mephisto  by  Thomas  Mogley,  a  trained  and 
painstaking  comedian.  His  performance  created 
an  abundance  of  merriment,  and  it  was  the 
manifest  thought  of  the  audience  that  a  new  type 
of  burlesque  comedian  had  been  discovered." 

All  of  which  was  literally  true.  And  the  dra- 
matic editor  laughed  over  it  later  over  his  bottle 
of  white  label  at  the  club. 

By  what  power  Mrs.  Mogley  managed  to  keep 
alive  until  morning  I  do  not  know.  The  dull 
gray  light  was  stealing  into  the  little  room  through 
the  window  as  Mogley,  leaning  over  the  bed,  held 
a  fresh  newspaper  close  to  her  face.  Her  head  was 
propped  up  by  means  of  pillows.  She  laughed 
through  her  tears.  Her  face  was  all  gladness. 

"  A  new  —  comedian  —  discovered,"  she  re- 
peated. "  Ah,  Tom,  at  last!  That  is  what  I  lived 
for !  I  can  die  happy  now.  We've  made  a  —  great 
-  hit  —  Tom  —  " 

The  voice  ceased.  There  was  a  convulsion  at  her 
68 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   MOGLEY 

throat.  Nothing  stirred  in  the  room.  From 
the  street  below  came  the  sound  of  a  passing  car 
and  a  boy's  voice,  "  Morning  papers."  Mogley 
was  weeping. 

The  dead  woman's  hand  clutched  the  paper. 
Her  face  wore  a  smile. 


OUT  OF  HIS  PAST 


OUT   OP   HIS   PAST 

THIS  is  no  fable ;  it  is  the  hardest  kind  of  fact. 
I  met  Craddock  not  more  than  a  week  ago.  His 
inebriety  prevented  his  recognizing  me. 

What  a  joyous,  hopeful  man  he  was  upon  the 
day  of  his  marriage !  He  looked  toward  the  future 
as  upon  a  cloudless  spring  dawn  one  looks  forward 
to  the  day. 

He  had  sown  his  wild  oats  and  had  already 
reaped  a  crop  of  knowledge.  "  I  have  put  the  past 
behind  me,"  he  said.  And  he  thought  it  would 
stay  there. 

He  married  one  of  the  sweetest  and  best  of 
women.  The  match  was  an  ideal  one  —  excep- 
tionally so.  His  wife's  mother  objected  to  it  and 
moved  away  on  account  of  it.  "  That's  a  detail," 
said  Craddock. 

There  are  details  and  details.  The  importance 
of  any  one  of  them  depends  on  circumstances. 

Craddock  had  all  the  qualities  and  attributes 
73 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

requisite  to  make  him  a  son-in-law  to  the  liking  of 
his  mother-in-law  —  lack  of  money. 

So  she  went  to  live  in  Boston,  maintained  a 
chilly  correspondence  with  her  daughter,  and 
bided  her  time. 

Craddock  had  had  his  old  loves,  a  fact  that  he 
did  not  attempt  to  conceal  from  his  wife.  She 
insisted  upon  his  telling  her  about  them,  although 
the  narration  put  her  into  manifest  vexation  of 
mind.  Such  is  the  way  of  young  wives. 

There  was  one  love  about  which  Craddock 
said  less  than  about  any  of  the  others,  because 
it  had  encroached  more  upon  his  life  than  any  of 
them.  It  had  nearly  approached  being  a  serious 
affair.  He  had  a  delicacy  concerning  the  mention 
of  it,  too,  for  he  flattered  himself  that  the  flame, 
although  entirely  extinguished  upon  his  own  side, 
yet  smouldered  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  woman. 
Therefore,  he  spoke  of  that  episode  in  vague  and 
general  terms. 

Strange  as  it  seemed  to  Craddock,  clear  as  it  is 
to  any  student  of  men  and  women,  it  was  this 
amour  that  excited  the  most  curiosity  in  the  mind 
of  his  wife. 

"  What  was  her  name?  "  asked  the  latter. 

"  Agnes  Darrell." 


74 


OUT   OF   HIS   PAST 

"  I  don't  think  she  has  a  pretty  name,  at  all 
events." 

"  Oh,  that  was  only  her  stage  name.  I  really 
don't  remember  what  her  real  name  was." 

This  was  a  judicious  falsehood. 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  that  you  ever  made  love  to 
actresses.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  think  as  much  of 
you  after  knowing  —  " 

"  After  knowing  that  the  first  sight  of  you  drove 
the  memory  of  all  actresses  and  other  women 
in  the  world  out  of  my  head,"  cried  Craddock, 
with  a  merry  fervour  that  made  his  speech  irre- 
sistible. 

So  they  persisted  in  being  extremely  happy 
together  for  three  years,  to  the  grinding  chagrin 
of  Craddock's  mother-in-law  in  Boston. 

One  July  Friday,  Craddock's  wife  was  at  the 
seashore,  while  Craddock,  who  ran  down  each 
Saturday  to  remain  with  her  until  Monday,  was 
battling  with  his  work  and  the  heat  and  the  sum- 
mer insects,  in  his  office  in  the  city.  Mrs.  Crad- 
dock received  her  mail,  two  letters  addressed  to 
her  at  the  seaside,  two  forwarded  from  the  city 
whither  they  had  first  come. 

Of  the  latter  one  was  a  milliner's  announcement 
of  removal.  The  other  was  in  a  large  envelope, 
and  the  address  was  in  a  chirography  unknown 

75 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

to  her.  The  large  envelope  contained  a  smaller 
one. 

This  second  envelope  was  addressed  to  Miss 

Agnes  Darrell,  Hotel,  Chicago,  in  the 

handwriting  of  Craddock. 

The  feelings  of  Craddock's  wife  are  imaginable. 
She  took  from  this  already  opened  second  envelope 
the  letter  that  it  contained.  It  also  was  in 
Craddock's  penmanship.  She  succeeded  in  a 
semistupefied  condition  in  reading  it  to  the  end. 

"  May  13. 

"Mv  DEAREST  AGNES:  —  I  have  just  a  mo- 
ment in  which  to  tell  you  the  old  story  that  one 
heart,  thousands  of  miles  east  of  you,  beats  for 
you  alone.  With  what  joy  do  I  anticipate  the 
early  ending  of  the  season,  when,  like  young 
Lochinvar,  you  will  come  out  of  the  West.  I  shall 
contrive  to  be  with  you  as  often  as  possible 
this  summer.  With  renewed  vows  of  my  un- 
alterable devotion,  I  must  hastily  say  good 
night. 

"  Yours  always, 

"  JACK." 

Any  who  seek  a  new  emotion  would  ask  for 
nothing  more  than  Craddock's  wife  then  ex- 

76 


OUT   OF  ms   PAST 

perienced.  It  was  not  until  the  first  shock  had 
given  away  to  a  calm,  stupendous  indignation 
that  she  began  to  comment  upon  the  epistle  in 
detail. 

"  May  1 3th  —  at  that  very  time  Jack  was 
sighing  at  the  thought  of  my  being  away  from  him 
during  the  hot  weather  and  telling  me  how  he 
would  miss  me.  All  deception !  His  heart  at  that 
very  time  was  beating  for  her  alone.  And  he 
would  contrive  to  see  her  as  often  as  possible 
this  summer  —  during  my  absence!  " 

It  was  then  that  Craddock's  wife  learned  the 
great  value  of  pride  and  anger  as  a  compound 
antidote  to  overwhelming  grief  in  certain  circum- 
stances. 

When  Craddock,  quite  unarmed,  rushed  to 
meet  her  at  the  seashore  upon  the  next  evening, 
she  was  en  route  for  Boston. 

In  several  ensuing  years,  Craddock's  wife's 
mother  took  care  that  every  communication  from 
him,  every  demand  for  an  explanation,  every 
piteous  plea  for  enlightenment,  for  one  interview, 
should  be  ignored.  The  mother  sent  the  girl  to 
relatives  in  Europe ;  and  after  Craddock  had  spent 
three  years  and  all  the  money  that  he  had  saved 
toward  the  buying  of  a  house  for  his  wife  and  him- 
self, in  trying  to  cross  her  path  that  he  might  have 

77 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

a  moment's  hearing,  he  came  back  home  and  went 
to  the  dogs. 

He  would  have  killed  himself  had  not  hope  re- 
mained —  the  hope  that  some  chance  turn  of 
events  would  bring  him  face  to  face  with  her,  that 
he  might  know  wherefore  his  punishment.  He 
would  have  proudly  resolved  to  forget  her,  and 
he  would  have  striven  day  and  night  to  make 
a  name  that  some  day  would  reach  her  ears  where- 
ever  she  might  go,  had  he  not  felt  that  some 
terrible  mstake  had  taken  her  from  him;  time 
would  eventually  rectify  matters.  As  hope  bade 
him  live  and  as  his  inability  to  forget  her  made  it 
impossible  for  him  to  put  his  thoughts  upon  work, 
he  became  a  drunkard. 

He  might  not  have  done  so  had  he  been  you 
or  I;  but  he  was  only  Craddock,  and  whether  or 
not  you  find  his  offence  beyond  the  extent  of 
palliation,  the  fact  is  that  he  drank  himself 
penniless  and  entirely  beyond  the  power  of  his  own 
will  to  resume  respectability. 

Naturally  his  friends  abandoned  him. 

"  Craddock  is  making  a  beast  of  himself," 
said  one  who  had  formerly  sat  at  his  table.  "  To 
give  him  money  merely  accelerates  the  proc- 
ess." 

;<  When  a  man  loses  all  self-respect,  how  can  he 
78 


OUT   OF   HIS   PAST 

expect  to  retain  the  sympathy  of  other  people? " 
queried  a  second. 

"  I  never  thought  much  of  a  man  who  would 
go  to  the  gutter  on  account  of  a  woman.  It  shows 
a  lack  of  stamina,"  observed  a  third. 

All  of  which  was  true.  But  particular  cases 
have  exceptionally  aggravating  circumstances. 
Special  combinations  may  produce  results  which, 
although  seemingly  under  human  control,  are 
almost,  if  not  quite,  inevitable. 

One  day  Craddock's  wife  came  back  to  him. 
In  Paris  she  had  made  a  discovery.  She  had  kept 
the  letter  from  Jack  to  the  actress  in  a  box  that 
always  accompanied  her.  Opening  this  box 
suddenly,  her  eye  fell  upon  the  postmark, 
stamped  upon  the  envelope.  She  had  never 
noticed  this  before.  She  knew  that  the  date 
written  above  the  letter  itself  was  incomplete, 
the  year  not  being  indicated.  According  to  the 
postmark,  the  year  was  1875. 

That  was  four  years  before  Jack  married  her; 
two  years  before  he  first  saw  her. 

She  had  always  supposed  the  sending  of  the 
letter  to  her  to  be  the  act  of  some  jealous  rival 
of  Jack's  for  the  actress's  affection.  Now  she 
knew  not  to  what  it  might  have  been  attributable. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  hospital  where  Crad- 
79 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

dock  was  recovering  from  the  effects  of  an  un- 
conscious attempt  at  suicide,  she  was  ten  years 
older,  in  fact,  than  when  she  had  left  him ;  twenty 
years  older  in  appearance.  She  took  him  home 
and  has  been  trying  to  make  a  man  of  him.  She 
manifests  toward  him  limitless  patience  and 
tenderness,  and  she  tolerates  uncomplainingly  his 
bi-weekly  carousals.  But  she  can  afford  to, 
having  come  into  possession  of  a  small  fortune 
at  her  mother's  recent  death. 

Craddock  is  amiably  content  with  her.  He 
cannot  bring  himself  to  regard  her  as  the  beauti- 
ful young  bride  of  his  youth.  So  little  remains 
of  her  former  charm,  her  former  vivacity  and 
girlishness,  that  it  seems  as  if  Craddock's  wife 
of  other  times  had  died. 

A  few  days  ago,  I  met  at  the  Sheepshead 
Races  a  passee  actress  who  was  telling  about  the 
conquests  of  her  early  career. 

"  There  was  one  young  fellow  awfully  infatu- 
ated with  me,"  she  said,  "  who  used  to  write 
me  the  sweetest  letters.  I  kept  them  long  after 
he  stopped  caring  for  me,  until  he  was  married; 
then  I  destroyed  them.  I  found  one  short  one, 
though,  in  an  old  handbag  some  years  after,  and, 
just  for  a  joke  I  mailed  it  to  his  wife  at  his  old 
address.  I  don't  suppose  it  ever  reached  her, 

80 


OUT   OF  HIS   PAST 

though,  or  he  would  have  acknowledged  it,  for  the 
sake  of  old  times.  I  wonder  whatever  became 
of  Jack  Craddock.  People  used  to  say  he  had  a 
bright  future  —  I  say,  tell  that  messenger-boy 
to  come  here !  I  m  going  to  put  five  on  Tenny  for 
this  next  race.  And  you'll  lend  me  the  five, 
won't  you? " 


81 


THE  NEW  SIDE  PARTNER 


VI 

THE    NEW    SIDE    PARTNER 

A  CHANCE  in  life  is  like  worldly  greatness  — 
to  which,  indeed,  it  is  commonly  a  requisite  pre- 
liminary. Some  are  born  with  it,  some  achieve 
it,  and  some  have  it  thrust  upon  them. 

There  is  a  youth  who  has  had  it  thrust  upon 
him.  What  he  will  do  with  it  remains  to  be 
seen.  Know  the  story,  which  is  true  in  every 
detail  save  in  two  proper  names: 

The  midnight  train  from  New  York,  which 
crawls  out  of  the  Jersey  City  ferry  station  at  12.25, 
is  usually  doleful,  especially  in  the  ordinary  cars. 
One  who  cannot  sleep  easily  therein  has  a  weary 
two  or  three  hours'  time  to  Philadelphia.  Al- 
most any  equally  wakeful  companion  is  then 
a  source  of  joy. 

A  girl  of  medium  size,  wearing  a  veil,  and  being 
rather  carelessly  attired  in  dark  clothes  which 
fitted  a  charming  figure,  walked  jauntily  up  the 
aisle,  saw  that  no  seat  was  entirely  vacant,  and 

85 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

therefore,  after  a  hasty  glance  at  me,  sat  down 
beside  me.  . 

Had  not  the  two  very  young  men  in  the  seat 
behind  us  drunk  too  much  wine  that  night  in  New 
York,  the  girl  and  I  might  never  have  exchanged 
a  word.  But  the  conversation  of  the  youths  was 
such  as  to  cause  between  us  the  intercommunica- 
tion of  smiles,  and  eventually  of  speeches. 

Then  casual  observations  about  the  fulness  of 
the  car,  the  time  of  the  train,  and  our  respective 
destinations,  —  mine  being  Philadelphia,  hers 
being  Baltimore,  led  to  the  revelation  that  she 
was  a  constant  traveller,  because  she  was  an 
actress.  She  had  been  a  soubrette  in  musical 
farce,  but  lately  she  had  belonged  to  a  variety  and 
burlesque  company.  She  had  gone  upon  the  stage 
when  she  was  thirteen,  and  she  was  now  twenty. 

"  What  kind  of  an  act  do  you  do?  "  I  asked, 
in  the  language  of  the  variety  "  profession." 

"  Oh,  I  can  do  almost  anything,"  she  said,  in  a 
tone  of  a  self-possessed,  careless,  and  vivacious 
woman.  "  I  sing  well  enough,  and  I  can  dance 
anything,  a  skirt  dance,  a  clog,  a  Mexican  fan- 
dango, a  Carmencita  kind  of  step,  anything  at  all. 
I  don't  know  when  I  ever  learned  to  dance.  I 
didn't  learn,  it  just  came  to  me;  but  the  best 
thing  I  do  is  whistling.  I'm  not  afraid  of  any  man 

86 


THE    NEW    SIDE   PARTNER 

in  the  business  when  it's  a  case  of  whistling. 
There's  no  fake  about  my  whistle;  it's  the  real 
thing.  I  can  whistle  any  sort  of  music  that 
goes." 

"  Your  company  appears  in  Baltimore  this 
week?  " 

"  Oh,  no!  I've  left  the  company.  You  see,  I've 
been  off  for  six  weeks  on  account  of  illness,  and 
now  I'm  going  over  to  Baltimore  to  my  father's 
funeral.  He  is  to  be  buried  to-morrow.  See,  here's 
the  telegram.  I've  been  having  hard  lines  lately. 
I've  not  had  any  sleep  for  three  days,  and  I  won't 
get  to  Baltimore  till  daylight.  I  want  to  start 
back  to  New  York  to-morrow  night,  if  I  can  raise 
the  stuff.  I  had  just  enough  money  to  get  a  ticket 
to  Baltimore,  and  now  I'm  dead  broke." 

Then  she  laughed  and  got  me  to  untie  her  veil. 
When  it  was  removed,  I  saw  a  frank  young  face 
with  an  abundance  of  soft  brown  hair.  About  the 
light  blue  eyes  were  the  marks  of  fatigue,  and  the 
colour  of  the  cheeks  further  confirmed  her  account 
of  loss  of  sleep. 

Her  feet  pattered  softly  upon  the  floor  of  the 
car. 

"I'm  doing  a  single  shuffle,"  she  said,  in  ex- 
planation of  the  movement  of  her  feet.  "  If  you 
could  do  one  too,  we  might  do  a  double." 

87 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

"  Do  you  do  your  act  alone  on  the  stage?  " 
I  asked,  u  or  are  you  one  of  a  team?  " 

"  We're  a  team.  My  side  partner's  a  man.  It 
pays  better  that  way.  We  get  $40  a  week  and 
transportation.  I  used  to  get  only  $12  except 
when  I  stood  around  and  posed,  then  I  got  $35 
and  had  to  pay  my  own  railroad  fare.  You  can 
bet  I  have  a  good  figure,  when  I  get  $35  for  that 
alone!  I  handle  the  money  of  the  team  and  I 
divide  it  even  between  us.  I  don't  believe  in  the 
man  getting  nine-tenths  of  the  stuff,  do  you? 
Besides,  I'm  older  than  my  partner  is.  I  put  him 
in  the  business." 

"  HC77  was  that?  " 

"  Oh,  I  picked  him  up  on  the  street  in  New 
York.  I  saw  that  he  had  a  good  voice  and  was 
a  bright  kid,  so  I  took  him  for  my  partner." 

"  But  tell  me  how  it  came  about." 

She  was  quite  willing  to  do  so.  And  the  rum- 
bling of  the  wheels,  the  rush  of  the  train  over  the 
night-swathed  plains  of  New  Jersey,  accom- 
panied her  voice.  All  the  other  passengers  were 
sleeping.  To  the  following  effect  was  her  narra- 
tive: 

At  evening  a  crowd  of  boys  had  gathered  at  the 
corner  of  Broadway  and  a  down-town  street. 
One  of  them  —  ragged,  unkempt,  but  handsome 

88 


SHE    PUSHED    THROUGH    THE    CROWD    TO    HIM." 


THE   NEW   SIDE   PARTNER 

—  was  singing  and  dancing  for  the  diversion  of 
the  others.  That  way  came  the  variety  actress, 
then  out  of  an  engagement.  She  stopped,  heard 
the  boy  sing,  and  saw  him  dance.  She  pushed 
through  the  crowd  to  him. 

"  How  did  you  learn  to  dance?  "  she  asked. 

"  Didn't  ever  learn,"  he  said,  with  impudent 
sullenness. 

"  Who  taught  you  to  sing?  " 

"  None  o'  yer  business." 

"  But  who  did  teach  you?  " 

"  Nobody." 

"  What's  your  name?  " 

"  None  of  your  business." 

"  Will  you  come  along  with  me  into  the  restau- 
rant over  there?  " 

"  No." 

But  presently  he  was  induced  to  go,  although 
he  continued  to  answer  her  questions  in  the  savage, 
distrustful  manner  of  his  class.  They  went  into 
a  cheap  eating-house  and  saloon,  through  the 
"  Ladies'  Entrance,"  and  while  they  sat  at  a  table 
there,  she  learned  by  means  of  resolute  and 
patient  questions  that  the  boy  earned  his  living  by 
blacking  shoes  now  and  then,  and  that  he  did  not 
know  who  his  parents  were,  as  he  had  been  "  put  " 
with  a  family  whose  ill-usage  he  had  fled  from 

89 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

to  live  in  the  street.  He  began  to  melt  under  her 
manifestations  of  interest  in  him,  and  with  pre- 
tended reluctance  he  gave  his  promise  to  wash  his 
face  and  hands  and  to  call  upon  her  that  evening 
at  the  theatrical  boarding-house  on  Twenty- 
seventh  Street  where  she  was  living.  Then  she 
left  him. 

When  he  called,  she  took  him  to  her  room  and 
induced  him  to  allow  her  to  comb  his  hair.  A 
deal  of  persuasion  was  necessary  to  this.  Then 
she  took  him  out  and  bought  him  a  cheap  suit 
of  clothes  on  the  Bowery.  A  half-hour  later  he 
was  standing  with  her  in  the  wings  at  Miner's 
Variety  Theatre.  A  man  and  woman  were  doing 
a  song  and  dance  upon  the  stage. 

"  Watch  that  man,"  the  actress  said  to  the 
boy  of  the  streets.  "  I  want  you  to  do  that  sort 
of  an  act  with  me  one  of  these  days." 

When  he  had  thus  received  his  first  lesson,  she 
led  him  back  to  the  theatrical  boarding-house, 
and  in  her  room  he  showed  her  what  ability  he 
had  picked  up  as  a  singer  and  dancer.  She 
secured  a  room  for  him  in  the  house,  and  she  had 
the  precaution  to  lock  him  in  lest  he  should  take 
fright  at  his  novel  change  of  surroundings  and 
flee  in  the  night.  When  she  released  him  on  the 
next  morning  she  found  him  docile  and  cheerful. 

90 


THE    NEW    SIDE    PARTNER 

She  escorted  him  into  the  big  dining-room  to 
breakfast. 

"  Who's  your  friend,  Lil?  "  asked  a  certain 
actor  whose  name  is  known  from  Portland  to 
Portland. 

"  He's  my  new  side  partner,"  she  said,  looking 
at  the  boy,  who  was  not  in  the  least  abashed  at 
the  bold  gaze  of  the  negligently  dressed  soubrettes 
and  the  chaffing  comedians  who  sat  at  the  tables. 

Everybody  laughed.  "What  can  he  do?" 
was  the  general  question. 

"  Get  out  there  and  show  them,  young  one," 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  centre  of  the  dining- 
room. 

The  boy  obeyed  without  timidity.  When  he 
had  sung  and  danced,  there  was  hilarious  applause. 

"  Good  for  the  kid,"  said  the  well-known  actor. 
"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him,  Lil?  " 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  get  an  engagement  for  us 
together  in  Rose  St.  Glair's  Burlesque  Company." 

"  I'll  help  you,"  said  the  actor.  "  I  know  Rose. 
I'll  go  and  see  her  right  away,  and  you  come  there 
with  the  kid  about  n  o'clock." 

When  the  girl  and  her  protege"  arrived  at  the 
boarding-house  of  the  fat  manageress  they  found 
that  the  actor  had  so  far  kept  his  promise  as  to 
have  inveigled  her  into  a  condition  of  alcoholic 

91 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

amiability.  She  asked  them  what  they  could  do. 
Each  one  sang  and  danced,  and  the  girl,  who  also 
whistled,  outlined  to  the  manageress  her  idea  of 
an  "  act "  in  which  the  two  should  appear. 
There  was  a  hitch  when  the  question  of  salary 
arose.  The  girl  fixed  upon  $40.  Rose  thought 
that  amount  was  too  large.  Lil  adhered  to  her 
terms,  and  was  about  to  leave  without  having 
made  an  agreement,  when  the  manageress  called 
her  back,  and  a  contract  for  a  three  weeks'  en- 
gagement was  signed  at  once. 

The  period  between  that  day  and  the  beginning 
of  the  engagement,  which  subsequently  opened 
at  Miner's  Theatre,  was  spent  by  the  girl  in 
coaching  her  protege".  He  was  a  year  younger 
than  she,  a  fact  which  tended  to  increase  the 
influence  that  she  promptly  obtained  over  him. 
His  sullenness  having  been  overcome,  he  became 
a  devoted  and  apt  pupil.  Having  beheld  himself  in 
neat  clothes  and  acquired  habits  of  cleanliness, 
he  speedily  developed  into  a  handsome  youth 
of  soft  disposition  and  good  behaviour. 

The  new  song  and  dance  "  team  "  was  success- 
ful. The  boy  quickly  gained  applause,  and  espe- 
cially did  he  easily  win  the  liking  of  such  women 
as  he  met  or  appeared  before.  A  new  world  was 
open  to  him.  Naturally  he  enjoyed  the  easy 

92 


THE   NEW   SIDE   PARTNER 

conquests  that  he  made  in  the  curious,  careless 
circle  into  which  he  had  been  brought. 

He  is  still  having  his  "  fling."  But  he  has  been 
from  the  first  most  obedient  and  unquestioning  to 
his  benefactress.  He  goes  nowhere,  does  nothing, 
without  previously  obtaining  permission  from 
her. 

She  is  proud  of  the  advancement  that  he  has 
accomplished  already,  and  she  is  determined 
to  make  him  a  conspicuous  figure  upon  the 
stage. 

What  is  it  that  actuates  this  girl  in  her  en- 
deavour to  elevate  this  boy  in  the  world?  What 
the  mystery  that  brought  to  the  gamin  this 
guardian  angel  in  the  form  of  a  variety  actress 
who  mingles  bright  sayings  with  lack  of  grammar, 
who  tells  Rabelaisian  anecdotes  in  one  minute 
and  philosophizes  in  slang  about  the  issues  of 
life  the  next? 

"  You're  in  love  with  him,  aren't  you?  "  I  said, 
as  the  train  plunged  on  through  the  darkness. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  or  not.  He's 
just  a  kid,  you  know.  I  suppose  the  proper  end 
of  such  a  romance  is  that  we  should  marry.  But 
then  I  wouldn't  be  married  to  a  man  that  I 
couldn't  look  up  to." 

98 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  But  women  don't  invariably  love  that  way. 
I'm  sure  you're  in  love  with  the  boy.  Have  you 
never  thought  as  to  whether  you  were  or  not?  " 

"  Have  I?  I  should  smile!  I  thought  of  it 
even  on  the  first  night,  after  I  picked  him  up, 
when  I  locked  him  in  his  room.  But  I  have 
always  regarded  him  in  a  sort  of  motherly  way, 
although  only  a  year  older.  It  seems  kind  of 
unnatural  for  me  to  love  him  as  a  woman  loves 
a  man.  If  he  was  only  older!  " 

"  Ah,  that  wish  is  sure  evidence  that  you  love 
him!" 

"  One  thing  I  do  know  is  that,  though  he  always 
obeys  me,  he  doesn't  care  as  much  for  me  as  I 
do  for  him." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  " 

"  He  wouldn't  think  so  much  of  other  girls  if 
he  did.  He  doesn't  look  upon  me  as  a  woman  for 
him  to  fall  in  love  with.  He  regards  me  as  an 
older  sister.  Why,  he  never  even  takes  a  girl  to 
supper  after  the  performance  without  asking  my 
permission." 

"  And  you  give  it?  " 

'  Yes ;  but  he  never  knows  how  I  feel  when  I 
do." 

"  And  how  do  you  feel  then?  " 

"  The  first  time  he  asked  me,  it  was  like  a 
94 


THE   NEW   SIDE   PARTNER 

knife  going  through  me.    I  haven't  got  used  to  it 
yet." 

She  paused  for  a  time  before  adding: 

"  But,  anyhow,  he's  going  to  make  a  name  for 
himself  some  day.  He  has  it  in  him.  I'm  not 
the  only  one  that  thinks  so.  I'm  trying  now  to 
get  him  to  go  to  a  school  of  acting,  but  he  thinks 
variety  is  good  enough  for  him.  He'll  get  over 
that,  though." 

She  spoke  so  tenderly  and  yet  so  proudly  of  him, 
that  I  could  not  without  a  pang  of  pity  meditate 
upon  the  probable  outcome  of  this  attachment, 
which,  according  to  the  logic  of  realists,  will  be 
the  boy's  eventual  success  in  life,  long  after  he 
will  have  forgotten  the  hand  that  lifted  him  out  of 
the  depth  in  which  he  first  opened  his  eyes. 

He  knows  nothing  of  his  parentage.  His  bene- 
factress once  sought,  by  means  of  Inspector 
Byrnes's  penetrating  eye,  to  pierce  the  clouds 
surrounding  his  origin,  but  the  inspector  smiled 
at  the  hopelessness  of  the  attempt. 

"  Where  is  he  now?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  left  him  in  New  York,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose 
he'll  blow  in  all  his  money  as  soon  as  he  can 
possibly  manage  to  do  so." 

And  she  laughed  and  did  another  "  shuffle  " 
with  her  feet  upon  the  floor  of  the  car. 

95 


THE  NEEDY  OUTSIDER 


VII 

THE    NEEDY    OUTSIDER 

THERE  was  animation  at  the  Nocturnal  Club 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  city  reporters 
who  had  been  dropping  in  since  midnight  were  now 
reinforced  by  telegraph  editors,  for  the  country 
editions  of  the  big  dailies  were  already  being 
rushed  in  light  wagons  over  the  sounding  stones 
to  the  railroad  stations. 

The  cheery  and  urbane  African  —  naturally 
called  Delmonico  by  the  habitu6s  of  the  Nocturnal 
Club  —  found  his  time  crowded  in  serving  bottled 
beer,  sandwiches,  or  boiled  eggs  to  the  groups 
around  the  tables. 

To  a  large  group  in  the  back  room  Fetterson 
related  how  he  had  once  missed  the  last  car  at  the 
distant  extremity  of  West  Philadelphia,  and, 
failing  to  find  a  cab  west  of  Broad  Street,  had 
walked  fifty  blocks  after  midnight  and  had  still 
succeeded  in  getting  his  report  in  the  second 
edition  and  thus  making  a  "  beat  on  the  town." 

99 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

Then  spoke  up  a  needy  outsider  whom  Fetter  - 
son  had  brought  in  at  one  o'clock. 

I  neglected  to  mention  Fetterson's  penchant 
for  queer  company.  It  is  quite  right  that  reporters 
know  policemen,  are  on  chaffing  terms  with 
night  cabmen,  and  have  large  acquaintance  with 
pugilists  and  even  with  "  crooks."  But  Fetterson 
picks  up  the  most  remarkable  and  out-of-the-way 
• —  not  to  speak  of  out-at-elbows  —  specimens  of 
mankind,  craft  in  distress  on  the  sea  of  humanity. 
The  needy  outsider  was  his  latest  acquisition. 

It  is  enough  to  say  of  this  destitute  acquaintance 
of  Fetterson's  that  he  was  a  ragged  man  needing 
a  shave.  In  daylight,  in  the  country,  you  would 
have  termed  him  a  tramp.  Hitherto  he  had  sat 
in  our  group  in  silence.  When  he  opened  his 
mouth  to  discourse,  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
have  a  prompt  and  somewhat  curious  hearing. 

"  Speaking  of  walking,"  he  said,  "  I  have 
walked  a  bit  in  my  time.  Mostly,  though,  I've 
rode  —  on  freight-cars.  The  longest  straight 
tramp  I  ever  made  was  from  Harrisburg  to 
Philadelphia  once  when  the  trains  weren't  run- 
ning. The  cold  weather  made  walking  unpleasant. 
But  what  do  you  think  of  a  woman  —  no  tramp 
woman,  either  —  starting  from  Pittsburg  to  walk 
to  Philadelphia?" 

100 


THE   NEEDY  OUTSIDER 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  so-called  actress  who  recently 
walked  from  San  Francisco  to  New  York,"  put 
in  some  one. 

"  Yes,  but  she  took  her  time,  and  had  all  the 
necessaries  of  life  on  the  way.  She  walked  for  an 
advertisement.  The  woman  I  speak  of  walked 
in  order  to  get  there.  She  walked  because  she 
hadn't  the  money  to  pay  her  fare.  Her  husband 
was  with  her,  to  be  sure.  He  was  a  pal  o'  mine. 
You  see,  it  was  a  hard  winter,  years  ago,  and 
work  was  so  scarce  in  Pittsburg  that  the  husband 
had  to  remain  idle  until  the  two  had  begun  to 
starve.  He  had  some  education,  and  had  been 
an  office  clerk.  At  that  time  of  his  life  he  couldn't 
have  stood  manual  labour.  Still  he  tried  to  get  it, 
for  he  was  willing  to  do  anything  to  keep  a  lining 
to  his  skin.  If  you've  never  been  in  his  pre- 
dicament, you  can't  realize  how  it  is  and  you 
won't  believe  it  possible.  But  I've  known  more 
than  one  man  to  starve  because  he  couldn't  get 
work  and  wouldn't  take  public  charity.  Starva- 
tion was  the  prospect  of  this  young  fellow  and  his 
wife.  So  they  decided  to  leave  Pittsburg  and 
come  to  Philadelphia,  where  they  thought  it 
would  be  easier  for  the  husband  to  get  work. 

"  '  But  how  can  we  get  there? '  the  husband 
asked. 

101 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  She  was  a  plucky  girl  and  had  known  hard- 
ship, although  she  was  frail  to  look  at." 

"  '  Walk,'  she  replied. 

"  And  two  days  later  they  started." 

The  outsider  paused  and  lighted  a  forbidding- 
looking  pipe. 

When  he  resumed  his  narrative  he  spoke  in  a 
lower  tone.  The  recollections  that  he  called  up 
seemed  to  stir  him  within,  although  he  was  calm 
enough  of  exterior. 

"  I  won't  describe  the  experience  of  my  pal  on 
that  trip.  It  was  his  first  tramp.  He  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  art  of  vagabondage.  Of  course  they 
had  to  beg.  That  was  tough,  although  he  got 
used  to  it  and  to  many  tricks  in  the  trade.  They 
slept  in  barns  and  they  ate  when  and  where  they 
could.  It  cut  him  to  the  heart  to  see  his  wife  in 
such  hunger  and  fatigue.  But  her  spirits  kept 
up  better  than  his  —  or  at  least  they  seemed  to. 
Often  he  repented  of  having  started  upon  such  a 
trip.  But  he  kept  that  to  himself. 

"  When  the  wife  did  at  last  give  in  to  the  cold, 
the  hunger,  and  the  weariness,  it  was  to  collapse 
all  at  once.  It  happened  in  the  mountain  country. 
In  the  evening  of  a  cold,  dull  day  they  were 
trudging  along  on  the  railroad  ties,  keeping  on 
the  west-bound  track  so  they  could  face  approach- 

102 


THE   NEEDY   OUTSIDER 

ing  trains  and  get  off  the  track  in  time  to  avoid 
being  run  down. 

"  '  We'll  stop  in  the  town  ahead,'  the  husband 
said.  '  We  can  get  warm  in  the  station,  and 
you  shall  have  supper  if  we  have  to  knock  at 
every  door  in  the  town.' 

"  And  the  wife  said: 

"  '  Yes,  we'll  stop,  for  I  feel,  Harry,  as  if  —  as 
if  I  couldn't  —  go  any  fur —  Harry,  where  are 
you? ' 

"  She  fell  forward  on  the  track.  When  the  man 
picked  her  up  she  was  unconscious.  Clasping 
her  in  his  arms,  he  set  his  teeth  and  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  lights  of  the  town  ahead  and  hurried  for- 
ward. 

"  But  before  he  reached  the  town,  he  found  it 
was  a  dead  body  he  was  carrying. 

"  You  see  she  had  kept  up  until  the  very  last 
moment,  in  the  hope  of  reaching  the  town  before 
dark. 

"  What  the  man  did,  how  he  felt  when  he  dis- 
covered that  her  heart  had  ceased  to  beat,  there 
in  the  solitude  upon  the  mountains,  with  the 
town  in  sight  at  the  foot  of  the  slope  in  the 
gathering  night,  I  can  leave  to  the  vivid  imagina- 
tions of  you  newspaper  men.  For  four  hours  he 
mourned  over  her  body  by  the  side  of  the  track, 

103 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

and  those  in  the  train  that  passed  could  not  see 
him  for  the  darkness. 

"  Then  my  pal  took  the  body  in  his  arms  and 
started  up  the  mountain,  for  the  track  at  that 
point  passed  through  what  they  call  a  cut,  and 
the  hills  rise  steep  on  each  side  of  it.  He  had  his 
prejudices  against  pauper  burial,  my  pal  had, 
and  he  shrunk  from  going  to  the  town  and  begging 
a  grave  for  her.  He  didn't  need  a  doctor's  cer- 
tificate to  tell  him  that  life  had  gone  for  ever 
from  her  fragile  body.  He  knew  that  she  had  died 
of  cold  and  exhaustion. 

"As  he  turned  the  base  of  the  hill  to  begin  to 
descend  it,  he  saw  in  the  clouded  moonlight  a 
deserted  railroad  tool-house  by  the  track.  In 
front  of  it  lay  a  broken,  rusty  spade.  He 
shouldered  this  and  proceeded  up  the  mountain. 
It  was  a  long  walk,  and  he  had  to  stop  more  than 
once  to  rest,  but  he  got  to  the  top  at  last.  There 
was  a  little  clearing  in  the  woods  here,  where 
some  one  had  camped.  The  ruins  of  a  shanty 
still  remained. 

"  My  pal  laid  down  the  body  of  her  who  had 
been  his  wife,  with  the  dead  face  turned  toward 
the  sky,  which  was  beginning  to  be  cleared  of 
its  clouds.  Then  he  started  to  dig. 

"  It  was  a  longer  job  than  he  had  expected  it 
104 


THE    NEEDY    OUTSIDER 

to  be,  for  my  pal  was  tired  and  numb.  But  the 
grave  was  made  at  last,  upon  the  very  summit 
of  the  mountain. 

"  He  lifted  up  the  body  of  that  brave  girl,  he 
kissed  the  cold  lips,  and  he  took  off  his  coat  and 
wrapped  it  carefully  about  the  head,  so  that  the 
face  would  be  protected  from  the  earth.  He 
stooped  and  laid  the  body  in  the  shallow  grave, 
and  he  knelt  down  there  and  prayed. 

"  He  filled  the  grave  up  with  earth  with  the 
broken  spade  that  he  had  used  in  digging  it.  All 
these  things  required  a  long  time.  He  didn't 
observe  how  the  night  was  passing,  nor  that  the 
sky  became  clear  and  the  stars  shone  and  the 
moon  crossed  the  zenith  and  began  to  descend  in 
the  west.  He  didn't  notice  that  the  stars  began 
to  pale.  But  he  worked  on  until  he  had  finished, 
and  then  he  stopped  and  prayed  again. 

"  When  he  arose,  his  face  was  toward  the  east, 
and  over  the  distant  hilltops  he  saw  the  purple 
of  the  dawn." 

The  outsider  ceased  to  speak. 

"What  then?" 

"  That's  all.  My  pal  walked  down  the  moun- 
tain, jumped  upon  the  first  freight-train  that 
passed,  and  has  been  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of 
the  earth  ever  since." 

105 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

There  were  various  opinions  expressed  of  this 
narrative.  I  quietly  asked  the  needy  outsider 
as  we  left  the  club  at  sunrise: 

"  Will  you  tell  me  who  your  pal  was  —  the 
man  who  buried  his  wife  on  the  mountain -top?  " 

There  was  contemptuous  pity  in  the  outsider's 
look  as  it  dwelt  a  moment  upon  me  before  he 
replied:  "  The  man  was  myself." 

And  then  he  condescended  to  borrow  a  quarter 
from  me. 


106 


TIME  AND  THE  TOMBSTONE 


VIII 

TIME   AND   THE   TOMBSTONE 

TOMMY  McGuFFY  was  growing  old.  The  skin 
of  his  attenuated  face  was  so  shrunk  and  so 
stretched  from  wrinkle  to  wrinkle  that  it  seemed 
narrowly  to  escape  breaking.  About  the  pointed 
chin  and  the  cheekbones  it  had  the  colour  of 
faded  brick. 

Old  Tommy  had  become  so  thin  that  he  dared 
not  venture  to  the  top  of  the  hill  above  his  native 
village  of  Rearward  on  a  windy  day. 

His  knees  bent  comically  when  he  walked. 

For  some  years  the  villagers  had  been  counting 
the  nephews  and  nieces  to  whom  the  savings  of 
the  old  retired  dealer  in  dry-goods  would  eventu- 
ally descend. 

Ten  thousand  dollars  and  a  house  and  lot  con- 
stituted a  heritage  worth  anticipating  in  Rear- 
ward. 

The  innocent  old  man  was  not  upon  terms  of 
intimacy  with  his  prospective  heirs.  Having 

109 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

remained  unmarried,  his  only  close  associates 
were  two  who  had  been  his  companions  in  that 
remote  period  which  had  been  his  boyhood.  One 
of  these,  Jerry  Hurley,  was  a  childless  widower, 
a  very  estimable  and  highly  respected  man  who 
owned  two  farms.  The  other,  like  himself  a 
bachelor,  was  Billy  Skidmore,  the  sexton  of  the 
church,  and,  therefore,  the  regulator  of  the  town 
clock  upon  the  steeple. 

There  came  a  great  shock  to  Tommy  one  day. 
As  old  Mrs.  Sparks  said,  Jerry  Hurley,  "  all 
sudden-like,  just  took  a  notion  and  died." 

The  wealth  and  standing  of  Jerry  Hurley  in- 
sured him  an  imposing  funeral.  They  laid  his 
body  beside  that  which  had  once  been  his  wife  in 
Rearward  cemetery.  His  heirs  possessed  his 
farm,  and  time  went  on  —  slowly  as  it  always 
does  at  Rearward.  Tommy  went  frequently 
to  Hurley's  grave  and  wondered  when  his  heirs 
would  erect  a  monument  to  his  memory.  It  is 
necessary  that  your  grave  be  marked  with  a 
monument  if  you  would  stand  high  in  that  still 
society  that  holds  eternal  assembly  beneath 
the  pines  and  willows,  where  only  the  breezes 
speak,  and  they  in  subdued  voices. 

Years  passed,  and  the  grave  of  Tommy's  old 
friend,  Jerry,  remained  unmarked.  Jerry's  rela- 

110 


TIME   AND   THE   TOMBSTONE 

lives  had  postponed  the  duty  so  long  that  they 
had  grown  callous  to  public  opinion.  Besides, 
they  had  other  purposes  to  which  to  apply  Jerry's 
money.  It  was  easy  enough  to  avoid  reproach; 
they  had  only  to  refrain  from  visiting  the  grave- 
yard. 

"  Jerry  never  deserved  such  treatment,"  Tommy 
would  say  to  Billy  the  sexton,  as  the  two  met  to 
talk  it  over  every  sunny  afternoon. 

"It's  an  outrage,  that's  what  it  is!"  Billy 
would  reply,  for  the  hundredth  time. 

It  was,  in  their  eyes,  an  omission  almost  equal 
to  that  of  baptism  or  that  of  the  funeral  service. 

One  day,  as  Tommy  was  aiding  himself  along 
the  main  street  of  Rearward  by  means  of  a  hickory 
stick,  a  frightful  thought  came  to  him.  He  turned 
cold. 

What  if  his  own  heirs  should  neglect  to  mark 
his  own  grave? 

"  I'll  hurry  home  at  once,  and  put  the  money 
for  it  in  a  stocking  foot,"  thought  Tommy,  and 
his  knees  bent  more  than  usually  as  he  accelerated 
his  pace. 

But  as  he  tied  a  knot  in  the  stocking,  came  the 
fear  that  even  this  money  might  be  misapplied; 
even  his  will  might  be  ignored,  through  repeated 
postponement  and  the  law's  indifference. 

Ill 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

Who,  save  old  Billy  Skidmore,  would  care 
whether  old  Tommy  McGuffy's  last  resting- 
place  were  designated  or  not  ?  Once  let  the  worms 
begin  operations  upon  this  antique  morsel,  what 
would  it  matter  to  Rearward  folks  where  the 
banquet  was  taking  place? 

Tommy  now  underwent  a  second  attack  of 
horror,  from  which  he  came  victorious,  a  gleeful 
smile  momentarily  lifting  the  dimness  from  his 
excessively  lachrymal  eyes. 

"  I'll  fix  'em,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I'll  go  to- 
day to  Ricketts,  the  marble-cutter,  and  order  my 
own  tombstone." 

Three  months  thereafter,  Ricketts,  the  marble- 
cutter,  untied  the  knot  in  the  stocking  that  had 
been  Billy's  and  deposited  the  contents  in  the 
local  savings-bank. 

In  the  cemetery  stood  a  monument  very  lofty 
and  elaborate.  Around  it  was  an  iron  fence. 
Within  the  enclosure  there  was  no  grave  as  yet. 

"  Here,"  said  the  monument,  in  deep-cut- 
letters,  but  bad  English,  "  lies  all  that  remains 
of  Thomas  McGuffy,  born  in  Rearward,  Novem- 
ber u,  1820;  died — .  Gone  whither  the  wicked 
cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary  are  at  rest." 

This  supplementary  information  was  framed 
in  the  words  of  Tommy's  favourite  passage  in  his 

112 


TIME   AND   THE   TOMBSTONE 

favourite  hymn.  His  liking  for  this  was  mainly 
on  account  of  its  tune. 

He  had  left  the  date  of  his  death  to  be  inserted 
by  the  marble  cutter  after  its  occurrence. 

Rearward  folks  were  amused  at  sight  of  the 
monument,  and  they  ascribed  the  placing  of  it 
there  to  the  eccentricity  of  a  taciturn  old 
man. 

Tommy  seemed  to  derive  much  pleasure  from 
visiting  his  tombstone  on  mild  days.  He  spent 
many  hours  contemplating  it.  He  would  enter 
the  iron  enclosure,  lock  the  gate  after  him,  and 
sit  upon  the  ground  that  was  intended  some  day 
to  cover  his  body. 

He  was  a  familiar  sight  to  people  riding  or 
walking  past  the  graveyard,  —  this  thin  old  man 
leaning  upon  his  cane,  contentedly  pondering 
over  the  inscription  on  his  own  tombstone. 

He  undoubtedly  found  much  innocent  pleasure 
in  it. 

One  afternoon,  as  he  was  so  engaged,  he  was 
assailed  by  a  new  apprehension. 

Suppose  that  Ricketts,  the  marble-cutter, 
should  fail  to  inscribe  the  date  of  his  death  in  the 
space  left  vacant  for  it! 

There  was  almost  no  likelihood  of  such  an 
omission,  but  there  was  at  least  a  possibility  of  it. 

113 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

He  glanced  across  the  cemetery  to  Jerry  Hur- 
ley's unmarked  mound,  and  shuddered. 

Then  he  thought  laboriously. 

When  he  left  the  cemetery  in  such  time  as  to 
avoid  a  delay  of  his  evening  meal  and  a  consequent 
outburst  of  anger  on  the  part  of  his  old  house- 
keeper, he  had  taken  a  resolution. 

"  Threescore  years  and  ten,  says  the  Bible," 
he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  walked  homeward. 
"  The  scriptural  lifetime '11  do  for  me." 

A  week  thereafter  old  Tommy  gazed  proudly 
upon  the  finished  inscription. 

"  Died  November  n,  1890,"  was  the  newest 
bit  of  biography  there  engraved. 

"  But  it's  two  years  and  more  till  November 
n,  1890,"  said  a  voice  at  his  side. 

Tommy  merely  cast  an  indifferent  look  upon  the 
speaker  and  walked  off  without  a  word. 

The  whole  village  now  thought  that  Tommy 
had  become  a  monomaniac  upon  the  subject  of 
his  tombstone.  Perhaps  he  had.  No  one  has 
been  able  to  learn  from  his  friend,  Billy  Skid- 
more,  what  thoughts  he  may  have  communicated 
to  the  latter  upon  the  matter. 

Tommy  now  lived  for  no  other  apparent  pur- 
pose than  to  visit  his  tombstone  daily.  He  no 
longer  confined  his  walks  thither  to  the  pleasant 

114 


TIME   AND   THE   TOMBSTONE 

days.    He  went  in  weather  most  perilous  to  so  old 
and  frail  a  man. 

One  of  his  prospective  heirs  took  sufficient  in- 
terest in  him  to  advise  more  care  of  his  health. 

"  I  can  easily  keep  alive  till  the  time  comes," 
returned  the  antique;  "  there's  only  a  year  left." 

Rapidly  his  hold  upon  life  relaxed.  A  week 
before  November  n,  1890,  he  went  to  bed  and 
stayed  there.  People  began  to  speculate  as  to 
whether  his  unique  prediction  —  or  I  should  say, 
his  decree  —  would  be  fulfilled  to  the  very  day. 

Upon  the  fifth  day  of  his  illness  Death  threat- 
ened to  come  before  the  time  that  had  been  set  for 
receiving  him. 

"  Isn't  this  the  tenth?  "  the  old  man  mumbled. 

"  No,"  said  his  housekeeper,  who  with  one  of 
his  nieces,  the  doctor,  and  Billy  Skidmore,  at- 
tended the  ill  man,  "  it's  only  the  gth." 

"Then  I  must  fight  for  two  days  more;  the 
tombstone  must  not  lie." 

And  he  rallied  so  well  that  it  seemed  as  if  the 
tombstone  would  lie,  nevertheless,  for  Tommy 
was  still  alive  at  eleven-thirty  on  the  night  of 
November  n.  Moreover  he  had  been  in  his 
senses  when  last  awake,  and  there  was  every 
likelihood  that  he  would  look  at  the  clock  when- 
ever his  eyes  should  next  open. 

115 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

"  He  can't  live  till  morning,  that's  sure,"  said 
the  doctor. 

"  But,  good  Lord!  you  don't  mean  to  say  that 
he'll  hold  out  till  after  twelve  o'clock,"  said  Billy 
Skidmore,  whose  anxiety  only  had  sustained  him 
in  his  grief  at  the  approaching  dissolution  of  his 
friend. 

"  Quite  probably,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  Good  heavens!  Tommy  won't  rest  easy  in 
his  grave  if  he  don't  die  on  the  nth.  The  monu- 
ment will  be  wrong." 

"  Oh,  that  won't  matter,"  said  the  niece. 

Billy  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  Was  his  old 
friend's  sacred  wish  to  miscarry  thus? 

"  Yes,  'twill  matter,"  he  said,  in  a  loud  whisper. 
"  And  if  time  won't  wait  for  Tommy  of  its  own 
accord,  we'll  make  it.  When  did  he  last  see  the 
clock?  " 

"  Half -past  nine,"  said  the  housekeeper. 

"  Then  we'll  turn  it  back  to  ten,"  said  Skid- 
more,  acting  as  he  spoke. 

"  But  he  may  hear  the  town  clock  strike." 

Billy  said  never  a  word,  but  plunged  into  his 
overcoat,  threw  on  his  hat,  and  hurried  on  into 
the  cold  night. 

"  Ten  minutes  to  midnight,"  he  said,  as  he 
looked  up  at  the  town  clock  upon  the  church 

116 


TIME   AND   THE   TOMBSTONE 

steeple.      "  Can    I    skin    up    them    ladders    in 
time?  " 

Tommy  awoke  once  before  the  last  slumber. 
Billy  was  by  his  bedside,  as  were  the  doctor, 
the  housekeeper,  and  the  niece.  The  old  man's 
eyes  sought  the  clock. 

"  Eleven,"  he  murmured.  Then  he  was  silent, 
for  the  town  clock  had  begun  to  strike.  He 
counted  the  strokes  —  eleven.  Then  he  smiled 
and  tried  to  speak  again. 

"  Almost  —  live  out  —  birthday  —  seventy  — 
tombstone  —  all  right." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and,  inasmuch  as  the  town 
clock  furnishes  the  official  time  for  Rearward, 
the  published  report  of  Tommy  McGuffy's  going 
records  that  he  passed  at  twenty-five  minutes 
after  eleven  P.  M.,  November  n,  1890. 

Very  few  people  know  that  time  turned  back 
one  hour  and  a  half  in  order  that  the  reputation 
of  Tommy  McGuffy's  tombstone  for  veracity 
might  be  spotless  in  the  eyes  of  future  generations. 

Billy  Skidmore,  the  sexton,  arranged  to  have 
Rearward  time  ready  for  the  sun  when  it  rose 
upon  the  following  morning. 


117 


HE  BELIEVED  THEM 


IX 

HE    BELIEVED   THEM 

HE  was  a  bachelor,  and  he  owned  a  little  tobacco 
store  in  the  suburbs.  All  the  labour,  manual  and 
mental,  requisite  to  the  continuance  of  the  estab- 
lishment, however,  was  done  by  the  ex-newsboy, 
to  whom  the  old  soldier  paid  $4  per  week  and 
allowed  free  tobacco. 

He  had  come  into  the  neighbourhood  from  the 
interior  of  the  state  shortly  after  the  war,  and  for 
a  time  there  were  not  ten  houses  within  a  block 
of  his  shop.  The  shop  is  now  the  one  architectural 
blemish  in  a  long  row  of  handsome  stores.  Miles 
of  streets  have  been  built  up  around  it. 

The  old  soldier  used  to  sit  in  an  antique  arm- 
chair in  the  rear  of  his  shop,  smoking,  from  meal 
to  meal. 

"  1 1'arnt  the  habit  in  the  army,"  he  would  say. 
"  I  never  teched  tobacker  till  I  went  to  the  war." 

People  would  look  inquiringly  at  his  empty 
sleeve. 

121 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  I  got  that  at  Gettysburg  in  the  second  day's 
fight,"  he  would  explain,  complacently. 

He  was  often  asked  whether  he  was  a  member 
of  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic. 

"  No;  'tain't  worth  while.  I  done  my  fightin' 
in  '63  and  '64  —  them  times.  I  don't  care  about 
doin'  it  over  again  in  talk.  Talk's  cheap." 

This  made  folks  smile,  for  he  was  continually 
righting  his  battles  over  again  in  conversation. 
Every  regular  customer  had  been  made  acquainted 
with  the  part  that  he  had  taken  in  each  contest, 
where  he  had  stood  when  he  received  his  wound, 
what  regiment  had  the  honour  of  possessing  him, 
and  how  promptly  he  had  enlisted  against  the 
wishes  of  parents  and  sweetheart. 

"  Of  course  you  get  a  pension,"  many  would 
observe. 

He  would  shake  his  head  and  answer,  in  a  mild 
tone  of  a  man  consciously  repressing  a  pardonable 
pride. 

"  I  never  'plied,  and  as  long  as  the  retail  to- 
backer  trade  keeps  up  like  this,  I  reckon  I  won't 
make  no  pull  on  the  gover'ment  treash'ry." 

And  he  would  puff  at  his  cigar  vigorously, 
beam  upon  the  group  that  surrounded  his  chair, 
and  start  on  one  of  his  long  trains  of  reminiscences. 

He  was  an  amiable  old  fellow,  with  gray  hair 
122 


HE   BELIEVED   THEM 

carefully  combed  back  from  his  curved  forehead, 
a  florid  countenance,  boyish  blue  eyes,  puffed 
cheeks,  a  smooth  chin,  and  very  military-looking 
gray  moustache.  He  was  manifestly  a  man  who 
ate  ample  dinners  and  amply  digested  them.  He 
would  glance  contentedly  downward  at  his  broad, 
round  body,  and  smilingly  remark: 

"  I  didn't  have  that  girth  in  my  fightin'  days. 
I  got  it  after  the  war  was  over." 

All  who  knew  him  admired  him.  He  would  tell 
with  simple  frankness  how,  after  distinguishing 
himself  at  Antietam,  he  chose  to  remain  a  private 
rather  than  take  the  lieutenancy  that  was  placed 
within  his  reach.  He  would  frequently  say: 

"  I  ain't  none  o'  them  that  thinks  the  country 
belongs  to  the  soldiers  because  they  saved  it.  No, 
sir !  If  they  want  the  country  as  a  reward,  where's 
the  credit  in  savin'  it?  " 

How  could  one  help  exclaiming :  "  What  a  really 
noble  old  man!  " 

Finally  some  of  the  young  men  who  received 
daily  inspiration  from  his  autobiographical  narra- 
tives arranged  a  surprise  for  the  old  soldier.  They 
presented  him  with  a  finely  framed  picture  of 
the  battle  of  Gettysburg,  under  which  was  the 
inscription : 

"  To  a  True  Patriot,  Who  Fought  and  Suffered 
123 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

Not  for  Self-interest  or  Glory,  but  for  Love  of 
His  Country." 

This  hung  in  his  shop  until  the  day  of  his  death. 
Then  his  brother  came  from  his  native  village  to 
attend  to  his  burial.  The  brother  stared  at  the 
picture,  inquired  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  inscrip- 
tion, and  then  laughed  vociferously. 

In  the  old  soldier's  trunk  was  found  a  faded 
newspaper  that  had  been  published  in  his  village 
in  1865.  It  contained  an  account  of  an  accident 
by  which  a  grocer's  clerk  had  lost  his  arm  in  a 
thrashing-machine.  The  grocer's  clerk  and  the 
old  soldier  were  one  person. 

He  had  never  seen  a  battle,  but  so  often  had  he 
told  his  war  stories  that  in  his  last  days  he  be- 
lieved them. 


124 


A   VAGRANT 


X 

A   VAGRANT 

ON  a  July  evening  at  dusk,  two  boys  sat  near 
the  crest  of  a  grass-grown  embankment  by  the 
railroad  at  the  western  side  of  a  Pennsylvania 
town.  They  talked  in  low  tones  of  the  sky's  glow 
above  where  the  sun  had  set  beyond  the  low  hills 
across  the  river,  and  also  of  the  stars,  and  of  the 
moon,  which  was  over  the  housetop  behind  them. 
Then  there  was  noise  of  insects  chirping  in  the 
grass  and  of  steam  escaping  from  the  locomotive 
boilers  in  the  engine  shed. 

A  rumble  sounded  as  from  the  north,  and  in 
that  direction  a  locomotive  headlight  came 
into  view.  It  neared  as  the  rumble  grew  louder, 
and  soon  a  freight-train  appeared.  This  rolled 
past  at  the  foot  of  the  embankment. 

From  between  two  grain  cars  leaped  a  man, 
and  after  him  another.  So  rapidly  was  the  train 
moving  that  they  seemed  to  be  hurled  from  it. 
Both  alighted  upon  their  feet.  One  tall  and  lithe, 

127 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

led  the  way  up  the  embankment,  followed  by 
the  other,  who  was  short  and  stocky. 

"  Bums,"  whispered  one  of  the  boys  at  the  top 
of  the  embankment. 

The  tramps  stood  still  when  they  reached  the 
top.  Even  in  the  half-light  it  could  be  seen  that 
their  clothes  were  ill-fitting,  frayed,  and  torn. 
They  wore  cast-off  hats.  The  tall  man,  whose 
face  was  clean-cut  and  made  a  pretence  of  being 
smooth-shaven,  had  a  pliable  one;  the  other  was 
capped  by  a  dented  derby. 

"  Here's  yer  town  at  last!  And  it  looks  like 
a  very  jay  place  at  that,"  said  the  short  tramp 
to  the  tall  one,  casting  his  eyes  toward  the  house 
roofs  eastward. 

The  boys  sitting  twenty  feet  away  became  silent 
and  cautiously  watched  the  newcomers. 

"  Yep,"  replied  the  tall  tramp,  in  a  deep  but 
serious  and  quiet  voice,  "-and  right  about  here 
is  the  spot  where  I  jumped  on  a  freight-train 
fifteen  years  ago,  the  night  I  ran  away  from  home. 
That  seems  like  yesterday,  though  I've  not  been 
here  since." 

"  Skipped  a  good  home  because  the  old  lady 
brought  you  a  new  dad!  You  wouldn't  catch  me 
being  run  out  by  no  stepfather.  Billy,  you  was 
rash." 

128 


A    VAGRANT 

"  Mebby  I  was.  But,  on  the  dead,  Pete,  it  was 
mostly  jealousy.  I  thought  my  mother  couldn't 
care  for  me  any  more  if  she  could  take  a  second 
husband.  My  sister  thought  so  too,  but  she  wasn't 
able  to  get  away  like  me.  Of  course  I  was  strong. 
It  was  boyish  pique  that  drove  me  away.  I  didn't 
fancy  having  another  man  in  my  dead  father's 
place,  either.  And  I  wanted  to  get  around  and  see 
the  world  a  bit.  After  I'd  gone  I  often  wished  I 
hadn't.  I'd  never  imagined  how  much  I  loved 
mother  and  sis.  But  I  was  tougher  and  prouder 
in  some  ways  than  most  kids.  You  can't  under- 
stand that  sort  of  thing,  Pete.  And  you  can't 
guess  how  I  feel,  bein'  back  here  for  the  first 
time  in  fifteen  years.  Think  of  it,  I  was  just 
fifteen  when  I  came  away.  Why,  I  spent  half 
my  life  here,  Petie!  " 

"Oh,  I've  read  somewhere  about  that,  —  the 
way  great  men  feel  when  they  visit  their  native 
town." 

The  short  tramp  took  a  clay  pipe  from  his 
coat  pocket  and  stuffed  into  it  a  cigar-end  fished 
from  another  pocket.  Then  he  inquired: 

"  And  now  you're  here,  Billy,  what  are  you  go'n 
to  do?  " 

"  Only  ask  around  what's  become  o'  my  folks, 
then  go  away.  It  won't  take  me  long." 

129 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  There'll  be  a  through  coal-train  along  in 
about  an  hour,  'cordin'  to  what  the  flagmen  told 
us  at  that  last  town.  Will  you  be  back  in  time 
to  bounce  that?  " 

"  Yes.  We  needn't  stay  here.  There's  little 
to  be  picked  up  in  a  place  like  this." 

"  Then  skin  along  and  make  your  investigations. 
I'll  sit  here  and  smoke  till  you  come  back.  If  you 
could  pinch  a  bit  of  bread  and  meat,  by  the  way, 
it  wouldn't  hurt." 

"  I'll  try,"  answered  the  tall  tramp.  "  I'm 
goin'  to  ask  the  kids  yonder,  first,  if  any  o'  my 
people  still  live  here." 

The  tall  tramp  strode  over  to  the  two  boys.  His 
companion  shambled  down  the  embankment  to 
obtain,  at  the  turntable  near  the  locomotive  shed 
across  the  railroad,  a  red-hot  cinder  with  which 
to  light  his  pipe. 

"  Do  you  youngsters  know  people  here  by  the 
name  of  Kershaw?  "  began  the  tall  tramp,  stand- 
ing beside  the  two  boys. 

Both  remained  sitting  on  the  grass.  One 
shook  his  head.  The  other  said,  "  No." 

The  tramp  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  that  his  mother  had  taken  his 
stepfather's  name  and  his  sister  might  be  married. 
Therefore  he  asked: 

130 


A   VAGRANT 

"  How  about  a  family  named  Coates?  " 

"  None  here,"  replied  one  of  the  boys. 

But  the  other  said,  "  Coates?  That's  the  name 
of  Tommy  Hackett's  grandmother." 

The  tramp  drew  and  expelled  a  quick,  audible 
breath. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  this  Mrs.  Coates  must  be 
the  mother  of  Tommy's  mother.  Do  you  know 
what  Tommy's  mother's  first  name  is?  " 

"  I  heard  Tom  call  her  Alice  once." 

The  tramp's  eyes  glistened. 

"  And  Mr.  Coates?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  I  never  heard  of  him.  I  guess  he  died 
long  ago." 

"And  Tommy  Hackett's  father,  who's  he?" 

"  He's  the  boss  down  at  the  freight  station. 
Agent,  I  think  they  call  him." 

"  Where  does  this  Mrs.  Coates  live?  " 

"  She  lives  with  the  Hacketts.  Would  you  like 
to  see  the  house?  Me  and  Dick  has  to  go  past  it 
on  the  way  home.  We'll  show  you." 

"  Yes,  I  would  like  to  see  the  house." 

The  boys  arose,  one  of  them  rather  sleepily. 
They  led  the  way  across  the  railway  company's 
lot,  then  along  a  sparsely  built  up  street,  and 
around  the  corner  into  a  more  populous  but  quiet 
highway.  At  the  corner  was  a  grocery  and  dry- 

131 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

goods  store;  beyond  that  were  neat  and  airy 
two-story  houses,  fronted  by  a  yard  closed  in  by 
iron  fences.  One  of  these  houses  had  a  little 
piazza,  on  which  sat  two  children.  From  the  open 
half-door  and  from  two  windows  came  light. 

"  That's  Hackett's  house,"  said  one  of  the  boys. 

"  Thanks,  very  much,"  replied  the  tramp,  con- 
tinuing to  walk  with  them. 

The  boys  looked  surprised  at  his  not  stopping 
at  the  house,  but  they  said  nothing. 

At  the  next  corner  the  tramp  spoke  up: 

"  I  think  I'll  go  back  now.  Good  night, 
youngsters." 

The  boys  trudged  on,  and  the  tramp  retraced 
his  steps.  When  he  reached  the  Hacketts'  house, 
he  paused  at  the  gate.  The  children,  a  boy  of 
eight  and  a  girl  of  six,  looked  at  him  curiously 
from  the  piazza. 

"  Are  you  Mr.  Hackett's  little  boy  and  girl? " 
he  asked. 

The  girl  stepped  back  to  the  hall  door  and  stood 
there.  The  boy  looked  up  at  the  tramp  and 
answered,  "  Yes,  sir." 

"  Is  your  mother  in?  " 

"  No,  she's  across  the  street  at  Mrs.  Johnson's." 

"  Grandmother's  in,  though,"  continued  the 
boy.  "  Would  you  like  to  see  her?  " 

132 


A   VAGRANT 

"  No,  no!  Don't  call  her.  I  just  wanted  to  see 
your  mother." 

"  Do  you  know  mamma?  "  inquired  the  girl. 

"  Well  —  no.    I  knew  her  brother,  your  uncle." 

"  We  haven't  any  uncle  —  except  Uncle  George, 
and  he's  papa's  brother,"  said  the  boy. 

"What!  Not  an  uncle  Will  —  Uncle  Will 
Kershaw?  " 

"O-h,  yes,"  assented  the  boy.  "Did  you 
know  him  before  he  died?  That  was  a  long  time 
ago." 

The  tramp  made  no  other  outward  manifesta- 
tion of  his  surprise  than  to  be  silent  and  motionless 
for  a  time.  Presently  he  said,  in  a  trembling 
voice : 

"  Yes,  before  he  died.  Do  you  remember 
when  he  died?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  That  was  when  mamma  was  a  girl. 
She  and  grandmother  often  talk  about  it,  though. 
Uncle  Will  started  West,  you  know,  when  he 
was  fifteen  years  old.  He  was  standing  on  a 
bridge  out  near  Pittsburg  one  day,  and  he  saw 
a  little  girl  fall  into  the  river.  He  jumped  in  to 
save  her,  but  he  was  drowned,  'cause  his  head 
hit  a  stone  and  that  stunned  him.  They  didn't 
know  it  was  Uncle  Will  or  who  it  was,  at  first, 
but  mamma  read  about  it  in  the  papers  and 

133 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

Grandpa  Coates  went  out  to  see  if  it  wasn't  Uncle 
Will.  Grandpa  'dentified  him  and  they  brought 
him  back  here,  but,  what  do  you  think,  the 
doctor  wouldn't  allow  them  to  open  his  coffin, 
and  so  grandma  and  mamma  couldn't  see  him. 
He's  buried  up  in  the  graveyard  next  Grandpa 
Kershaw,  and  there's  a  little  monument  there  that 
tells  all  about  how  he  died  trying  to  save  a  little 
girl  from  drownin'.  I  can  read  it,  but  Mamie 
can't.  She's  my  little  sister  there." 

The  tramp  had  seated  himself  on  the  piazza  step. 
He  was  looking  vacantly  before  him.  He  remained 
so  until  the  boy,  frightened  at  his  silence,  moved 
further  from  him,  toward  the  door.  Then  the 
tramp  arose  suddenly. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  huskily,  "  I  won't  wait  to  see 
your  mamma.  You  needn't  tell  her  about  me 
bein'  here.  But,  say  —  could  I  just  get  a  look  at 
—  at  your  grandma,  without  her  knowing  any- 
thing about  it?  " 

The  boy  took  his  sister's  hand  and  withdrew 
into  the  doorway.  Then  he  said,  "  Why,  of  course. 
You  can  see  her  through  the  window." 

The  tramp  stood  against  the  edge  of  the  piazza 
upon  his  toes,  and  craned  his  neck  to  see  through 
one  of  the  lighted  windows.  So  he  remained  for 
several  seconds.  Once  during  that  time  he  closed 

134 


A   VAGRANT 

his  eyes,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face  contracted. 
Then  he  opened  his  eyes  again.    They  were  moist. 

He  could  see  a  gentle  old  lady,  with  smooth 
gray  hair,  and  an  expression  of  calm  and  not  un- 
happy melancholy.  She  was  sitting  in  a  rocking- 
chair,  her  hands  resting  on  the  arms,  her  look 
fixed  unconsciously  on  the  paper  on  the  wall. 
She  was  thinking,  and  evidently  her  thoughts, 
though  sad,  perhaps,  were  not  keenly  painful. 

The  tramp  read  that  much  upon  her  face.  Pres- 
ently, without  a  word,  he  turned  quickly  about 
and  hurried  away,  closing  the  gate  after  him. 

When  the  two  children  told  about  their  visitor 
later,  their  mother  said: 

"  You  mustn't  talk  to  strange  men,  Tommy. 
You  and  Mamie  should  have  come  right  in  to 
grandma." 

Their  father  said:  "  He  was  probably  looking 
for  a  chance  to  steal  something.  I'll  let  the  dog 
out  in  the  yard  to-night." 

And  their  grandmother:  "  I  suppose  he  was 
only  a  man  who  likes  to  hear  children  talk,  and 
perhaps,  poor  fellow,  he  has  no  little  ones  of  his 
own." 

The  tramp   knew  the  way  to  the  cemetery. 
But  first  he  found  the  house  where  he  had  lived 
as  a  boy.     It  looked   painfully  rickety  and  sur- 
135 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

prisingly  small.  So  he  hastened  from  before  it 
and  went  up  by  a  back  street  across  the  town 
creek  and  up  a  hill,  where  at  last  he  stood  before 
the  cemetery  gate.  It  was  locked;  so  he  climbed 
over  the  wall.  He  went  still  further  up  the  hill, 
past  tombstones  that  looked  very  white,  and  trees 
that  looked  very  green  in  the  moonlight.  At  the 
top  of  the  hill  he  found  his  father's  grave.  Beside 
it  was  another  mound,  and  at  the  head  of  this, 
a  plain  little  pillar.  The  moon  was  high  now  and 
the  tramp  was  used  to  seeing  in  the  night.  Word 
by  word  he  could  slowly  read  upon  the  marble 
this  inscription: 

"  William  Albert,  beloved  son  of  the  late 
Thomas  Kershaw  and  his  wife  Rachel;  born  in 
Brickville,  August  2,  1862;  drowned  in  the  Al- 
legheny River  near  Pittsburg,  July  27,  1877, 
while  heroically  endeavouring  to  save  the  life  of 
a  child." 

The  tramp  laughed,  and  then  uttered  a  sigh. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  aloud,  "  what  poor  bloke 
it  is  that's  doin'  duty  for  me  under  the  ground 
here." 

And  at  the  thought  that  he  owed  an  excellent 
posthumous  reputation  to  the  unknown  who 
had  happened  to  resemble  him  fifteen  years 
before,  he  laughed  louder.  Having  no  one  near 

136 


A   VAGRANT 

to  share  his  mirth,  he  looked  up  at  the  amiable 
moon,  and  nodded  knowingly  thereat,  as  if  to 
say: 

"  This  is  a  fine  joke  we're  enjoying  between 
ourselves,  isn't  it?  " 

And  by  and  by  he  remembered  that  he  was  being 
waited  for,  and  he  strode  from  the  grave  and  from 
the  cemetery. 

By  the  railroad  the  short  tramp,  having  smoked 
all  the  refuse  tobacco  in  his  possession,  was  grow- 
ing impatient.  Already  the  expected  coal -train 
had  heralded  its  advent  by  whistle  and  puff  and 
roar  when  his  associate  had  joined  him. 

"  Found  out  all  you  wanted  to  know?  "  queried 
the  stout  little  vagabond,  starting  down  the  em- 
bankment to  mount  the  train. 

"  Yep,"  answered  the  tall  vagrant,  con- 
tentedly. 

The  small  man  grasped  the  iron  rod  attached 
to  the  side  of  one  of  the  moving  coal-cars  and 
swung  his  foot  into  the  iron  stirrup  beneath.  His 
companion  mounted  the  next  car  in  the  same 
way. 

"  Are  you  all  right,  Kersh?  "  shouted  back  the 
small  tramp,  standing  safe  above  the  "  bumpers." 

"  All  right,"  replied  the  tall  tramp,  climbing 
upon  the  end  of  a  car.  "  But  don't  ever  call  me 

137 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

Kersh  any  more.  After  this  I'm  always  Bill  the 
Bum.  Bill  Kershaw's  dead — "  and  he  added 
to  himself,  "  and  decently  buried  on  the  hill  over 
there  under  the  moon." 


138 


UNDER  AN  AWNING 


XI 

UNDER     AN     AWNING 

FOR  ten  minutes  we  had  been  standing  under 
the  awning,  driven  there  at  two  o'clock  at  night 
by  a  shower  that  had  arisen  suddenly. 

"  A  pocket  umbrella  is  one  of  the  unsupplied 
necessities  of  the  age,"  said  my  companion. 

"  Yes,  and  the  peculiarity  of  the  age  is  that 
while  such  luxuries  as  the  phonograph  and  the 
kinetograph  multiply  day  by  day,  important 
necessities  remain  unsupplied." 

My  friend  mused  for  a  time,  while  he  watched 
the  reflection  of  the  electric  light  in  the  little 
street  pools  that  were  agitated  by  the  falling  fine 
drops  of  rain. 

He  looked  from  the  reflection  to  the  light  itself, 
and  thus  his  eyes  turned  upward. 

An  expression  of  surprise  changed  to  mirth, 
and  then  dropping  his  glance  until  it  met  mine,  he 
said: 

"  Have  you  noticed  anything  peculiar  about 
this  awning?  " 

141 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"No,  what  is  it?" 

"  Simply  that  there  is  no  awning.  Look  up  and 
see.  Here  are  the  posts  and  there  is  the  frame- 
work, but  only  the  sky  is  above,  and  we've  been 
getting  rained  upon  for  the  past  ten  minutes  in 
blissful  ignorance." 

It  was  as  he  said,  so  we  ran  to  the  next  awning, 
which  was  a  fact,  not  a  figment  of  fancy. 

"  That  reminds  me,"  resumed  my  friend,  "  of 
Simpkins.  He  was  a  young  man  who  used  to 
catch  cold  at  the  slightest  dampness.  His  being 
out  in  the  rain  without  an  umbrella  never  failed 
to  result  in  his  remaining  in  the  house  for  two  or 
three  subsequent  days. 

"  One  night,  Simpkins,  surprised  by  an  un- 
expected shower,  took  refuge  beneath  the  frame- 
work of  an  awning,  which  framework  lacked  the 
awning  itself.  He  waited  for  an  hour,  until  the 
shower  had  passed,  and  then  joyously  took  up 
again  his  homeward  way,  without  having  observed 
his  mistake.  He  told  me  on  the  next  day  of  his 
narrow  escape  from  the  rain.  I  happened  to  know 
that  the  awning  to  which  he  alluded  had  been 
removed  a  few  weeks  before.  But  I  did  not  tell 
him  so  until  there  no  longer  seemed  to  exist  any 
likelihood  of  his  catching  cold  from  that  wetting. 
You  see,  his  imagination  had  saved  him." 

142 


UNDER   AN   AWNING 

"  That  tale  is  singularly  reminiscent  of  those 
dear  old  stories  about  the  man  who  took  cold 
through  sitting  at  a  window  that  was  composed 
of  one  solid  sheet  of  glass,  so  clean  that  he  thought 
it  was  no  glass  at  all ;  and  the  men  who,  awaking 
in  the  night,  stifling  for  want  of  fresh  air,  broke 
open  the  door  of  a  bookcase  which  they  took  to  be 
a  window,  and  immediately  noticed  a  pleasant 
draught  of  pure  outside  air." 

"  There  is  a  likeness,  which  simply  goes  toward 
proving  the  truth  of  all  three  accounts.  But  the 
remarkable  thing  about  Simpkins'  case  is  that 
when  he  once  learned  that  there  had  been  nothing 
over  his  head  during  that  rain,  he  immediately 
caught  cold,  although  two  weeks  had  passed  since 
the  night  of  the  shower.  Wonderful,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  Astonishing,  indeed." 

Silence  ensued  and  we  meditated  for  awhile. 
Evidently  the  same  thought  came  simultaneously 
into  the  minds  of  both  of  us,  for  while  I  was 
mentally  commenting  upon  the  deserted  and 
lonely  condition  of  the  city  streets  at  two  o'clock 
on  a  rainy  night,  my  friend  spoke : 

"  A  man  is  alone  with  his  conscience,  the  electric 
lights,  the  shadows  of  the  houses,  and  the  sound 
of  the  rain  at  a  time  and  place  like  this,  isn't  he? 
Standing  as  we  stand  now,  under  an  awning, 

143 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

during  a  persistent  rainfall,  at  this  hour,  with  no 
other  human  being  in  sight,  a  man  is  for  the  time 
upon  a  desert  island.  Which  reminds  me : 

"  One  night,  at  a  later  hour  than  this,  when  the 
rain  was  heavier  than  this,  I  was  alone  under  an 
awning  that  was  smaller  than  this.  Being  with- 
out umbrella  and  overcoat,  I  saw  at  least  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  waiting  for  me.  The  thought  was 
dismal. 

"  Happy  idea!  I  would  smoke.  I  had  a  cigar 
in  my  mouth  in  an  instant. 

"  Horrors!  I  had  no  matches. 

"  The  desire  to  smoke  instantly  increased  ten- 
fold. I  puffed  despairingly  at  my  unlit  cigar.  No 
miracle  occurred  to  ignite  it.  I  looked  longingly 
at  the  electric  lights  and  the  gas-lamps  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

"  Like  a  sailor  cast  upon  an  island  and  straining 
his  eyes  on  the  lookout  for  a  ship,  I  stood  there 
scanning  the  prospect  in  search  of  a  man  with  a 
light.  I  was  Enoch  Arden;  the  awning  was  my 
palm-tree. 

"  Ten  minutes  passed.  No  craft  hove  in 
sight. 

"  Suddenly  uncertain  footsteps  were  heard.  I 
looked.  Some  one  came  that  way.  It  was  a 
squalid-looking  personage — a  professional  beggar, 

144 


UNDER   AN  AWNING 

half-drunk.    He  landed  upon  my  island,  beneath 
my  awning. 

"  '  For  charity's  sake,  give  me  a  match ! '  I  cried. 

"  He  looked  at  me  —  '  sized  me  up,'  in  the 
technical  terminology  of  his  trade.  Intelligence 
began  to  illumine  his  countenance.  He  saw  that 
the  opportunity  of  his  life  had  come.  He  held  out 
a  match. 

"  '  I'll  sell  it  to  you  for  fifty  cents,'  he  said,  with 
a  grin. 

"  I  had  erred  in  revealing  the  depth  of  my  want, 
the  extent  of  my  distress. 

"  I  compromised  by  promising  to  give  him  a 
half-dollar  if  I  should  succeed  in  lighting  my  cigar 
with  his  solitary  match.  We  did  succeed.  He  took 
the  fifty  and  started  back  for  the  saloon  from 
whence  he  had  come. 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  the  irony  of  fate  —  that  same 
old  oft-quoted  irony ! 

"  I  hadn't  blown  three  mouthfuls  of  smoke 
from  that  cigar  when  a  friend  came  along  with 
a  lighted  cigar,  an  umbrella,  and  a  box  full  of 
matches. 

"  The  whole  effect  of  this  story  lies  in  the  value 
that  fifty  cents  possessed  for  me  at  that  time.  It 
was  my  last  fifty  cents,  and  two  days  stood  be- 
tween that  night  and  salary  day. 

145 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

"  I  had  another  experience  —  " 

But  a  night  car  came  in  view  from  around  a 
corner,  my  friend  ran  for  it,  and  his  third  tale 
remains  untold. 


146 


SHANDY'S  REVENGE 


XII 
SHANDY'S    REVENGE 

HE  was  old  enough  to  know  better,  and  a 
superficial  observer  might  have  thought  that  he 
did.  But  a  severe  and  haughty  manner  in  repose 
is  not  any  indication  of  knowledge,  nor  is  a  well- 
kept  beard,  even  when  it  is  turning  gray.  Melrose 
Welty,  the  possessor  of  these  and  other  ways  and 
features  symbolical  of  wisdom,  had  no  higher 
occupation  in  life  than  to  sit  in  club-houses  and 
cafe's,  telling  of  conquests  won  by  him  over 
women,  chiefly  over  soubrettes  and  chorus  girls. 

Of  his  means  of  livelihood,  no  one  had  certain 
knowledge.  He  always  dressed  well,  but  he  abode 
in  a  lodging-house,  to  which  he  never  invited  any 
of  his  associates.  He  affected  the  society  of  news- 
paper men,  some  of  whom  pronounced  him  a  good 
fellow  until  they  discovered  that  he  was  an  ass; 
and  he  never  refused  an  invitation  to  have  a  drink. 

When  he  had  you  at  a  table  in  a  quiet  corner  of 
a  cafe",  or  in  front  of  a  bar,  or  in  the  lobby  of  a 

149 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

theatre  between  the  acts,  no  matter  how  the  con- 
versation began,  he  would  invariably  turn  it  into 
that  realm  to  which  his  thoughts  were  confined. 

"  I've  got  a  supper  on  hand  to-night  after  the 
performance,"  he  would  probably  say,  "  with  a 

blonde  in  the  Company.     A  lovely  girl, 

too!  It's  curious,  old  man,  how  I  happened  to 
meet  her.  I've  talked  to  her  only  twice,  but  I 
made  a  hit  with  her  in  the  first  five  minutes.  I'll 
tell  you  how  it  was  —  " 

Whereupon,  if  you  were  polite,  and  did  not 
know  Welty  sufficiently  to  flee  on  a  pretext,  he 
would  tell  you  how  it  was,  inflicting  upon  you  the 
wearisome  minute  details  of  the  most  commonplace 
thing  in  the  world,  the  birth  and  growth  of  an  ac- 
quaintance between  a  man  about  town  and  a  silly 
young  woman,  not  fastidious  as  to  who  pays  for 
her  food  and  drink  as  long  as  the  food  and  drink 
are  adequate. 

If  you  were  a  newspaper  man,  Welty  was  apt  to 
supplement  his  story  with  something  like  this : 

"  By  the  way,  old  fellow,  if  you  have  any  pull 
with  your  dramatic  editor,  can't  you  give  her  a 
line  or  two?  She  hasn't  much  to  do  in  the  piece, 
but  she  does  it  well,  and  she's  clever.  She  may 
get  a  good  part  one  of  these  days.  Have  some- 
thing nice  said  about  her,  won't  you?  " 

150 


SHANDY'S   REVENGE 

And  if  you  ever  gave  another  thought  to  this 
plea,  you  determined  to  use  whatever  influence 
you  had  with  the  dramatic  editor  to  this  effect, 
that  the  young  woman  would  have  to  exhibit  very 
decided  cleverness  indeed  ere  she  should  have 
"  something  nice  "  said  about  her  in  the  paper. 

Welty  was  not  wont  to  retain  one  divinity  on 
the  altar  of  his  conversation  longer  than  a  week. 
But  he  did  so  once.  He  talked  about  the  same  girl 
every  day  for  a  month.  And  thereby  came  his 
undoing. 

She  was  a  slender  little  girl  who  was  singing 
badly  a  small  role  in  a  certain  comic  opera  at  the 
time  of  these  occurrences.  She  had  a  babyish 
manner  across  the  footlights,  and  she  was  thought 
to  be  a  blonde,  for  she  was  wearing  a  yellow  wig 
over  her  own  short  black  hair  that  season.  Her 
first  name  was  Emily. 

Welty  managed  to  be  introduced  to  her  by 
thrusting  himself  upon  a  little  party  of  which  she 
was  a  member,  and  in  which  was  one  acquaintance 
of  his,  at  a  restaurant  one  night.  He  called  upon 
her  at  her  boarding  house  the  next  day,  where  she 
received  him  with  some  surprise,  and  left  most  of 
the  conversation  to  him.  When  he  visited  there 
again,  she  caused  him  to  be  told  that  she  was  out, 
and  this  took  place  a  half  dozen  times.  Their  real 

151 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

acquaintance  never  went  any  further,  but  an  im- 
aginary acquaintance  between  them,  growing 
from  Welty's  wish,  made  great  progress  in  his 
fancy  and  in  the  stories  told  by  him  at  his  club  to 
groups  of  men,  some  of  whom  doubted  and  looked 
bored,  while  others  believed  and  grinned  and 
envied. 

It  was  at  the  point  where  Emily  had  quite  for- 
gotten Welty,  and  Welty's  stories  portrayed  her 
as  recklessly  adoring  him  and  seeking  him  in  cabs 
at  all  hours,  that  Barry  McGettigan,  a  despised 
young  reporter,  "  doing  police,"  heard  one  of 
Welty's  accounts  of  an  alleged  interview  with 
Emily;  and  Barry,  who  had  a  way  of  knowing 
human  nature  and  observing  people,  sus- 
pected. 

Now  Barry  cherished  a  deep-rooted  grudge 
against  Welty,  all  the  more  dangerous  because 
Welty  was  unaware  of  it.  Its  exact  cause  has 
never  been  torn  from  Barry's  breast.  Some  have 
ascribed  it  to  Welty's  having  mimicked  Barry's 
brogue  before  a  crowd  in  a  saloon  one  night. 
Others  have  laid  it  to  the  following  passage  of 
words,  which  is  now  a  part  of  the  ancient  history 
of  the  Nocturnal  Club. 

"  Spakin'  of  ancestors,"  Barry  began,  "  I'd 
loike  to  bet  —  " 


SHANDY'S   REVENGE 

"I'd  like  to  bet,"  broke  in  Welty,  "  that  your 
own  ancestry  leads  directly  to  the  Shandy  fam- 

fly." 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  which  Barry,  whose 
nose  was  as  flat  as  any  Shandy's  could  have  been 
but  who  had  never  read  Sterne,  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"  What  did  he  mane?  "  Barry  asked  a  friend. 
The  friend  told  him  to  read  "  Tristram  Shandy." 
He  spent  two  hours  in  a  public  library  next  day 
and  learned  how  his  facial  peculiarity  had  been 
used  by  Welty  to  create  a  laugh  and  incidentally 
to  insult  him. 

This  he  never  forgave.    And  he  bided  his  time. 

Now,  having  heard  Welty  boast  of  being  the 
object  of  this  Emily's  infatuation,  Barry  Mc- 
Gettigan  deflected  his  mind  from  the  contempla- 
tion of  murders,  infanticides,  fires,  and  other 
matters  of  general  interest,  and  gave  his  best 
thoughts  and  skill  to  investigating  this  talked-of 
love  affair  of  Welty's. 

He  discovered  the  true  situation  within  three 
days.  He  found  that  Emily  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  a  college  football  player  who  came  to 
the  city  once  a  week  to  see  her. 

He  borrowed  money,  made  himself  very  agree- 
able to  Welty,  and  also  got  himself  introduced  to 

153 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

the  football  player.  The  latter  was  a  tall,  lithe, 
heavy-shouldered,  brown-faced,  thick-knuckled 
youth,  who  practised  all  kinds  of  athletic  diver- 
sions. 

Barry  McGettigan  sounded  the  football  man  in 
one  brief  interview  one  night,  between  the  acts 
of  the  comic  opera,  at  the  saloon  next  door.  He 
found  a  means  of  fastening  himself  upon  the  foot- 
ball player's  esteem.  The  collegian  expressed  a 
mild  desire  to  see  something  of  police-station  life. 
Barry  invited  him  to  spend  an  evening  with  him 
on  duty  at  Central  Station.  The  collegian  accepted. 
Barry  appointed  a  time  and  named  a  certain  caf6 
as  a  meeting  place. 

Then  Barry  invited  Welty  to  dine  with  him  at 
the  same  cafe"  on  the  same  evening  at  the  same 
hour.  By  means  of  his  borrowed  money,  he  had 
lavished  costly  drinks  upon  Welty  of  late,  and 
Welty  had  reason  to  anticipate  a  dinner  worth 
the  accepting.  Barry  told  Welty  nothing  of  the 
collegian  and  he  told  the  collegian  nothing  more  of 
Welty. 

When  the  evening  came,  Barry  found  Welty 
awaiting  him  at  the  cafe".  The  two  sat  down  at  a 
table.  The  preliminary  cocktail  had  only  arrived 
when  in  walked  the  collegian.  Barry  saluted  him 
as  if  the  meeting  had  only  occurred  by  chance. 

154 


SHANDY'S   REVENGE 

He  made  the  collegian  and  Welty  known  to  each 
other  by  name  only.  And  then  he  ordered 
dinner. 

When  a  bottle  had  been  drunk,  Barry  inno- 
cently turned  the  current  of  the  conversation  to 
women.  He  spoke  modestly  of  a  mythical  con- 
quest he  had  recently  made.  The  football  player 
listened  without  showing  much  interest.  Presently 
Barry  paused. 

Welty  took  a  drink  and  began : 

"  No,  my  boy,"  said  he  to  Barry,  "  you're 
wrong  there.  It's  like  you  youngsters  to  think  you 
know  all  about  the  sex,  but  the  older  you  grow  the 
less  you  think  you  know  about  them,  until  you 
get  to  my  age." 

Barry  made  no  answer,  but  looked  at  Welty 
with  becoming  deference. 

The  football  man's  eyes  were  wandering  about 
the  caf6,  showing  him  to  be  indifferent  to  the 
theme  of  discussion. 

"  I  know,"  continued  Welty,  "  that  many  more 
or  less  writers  have  said,  as  you  say,  that  women 
must  be  sought  and  pursued  to  be  won.  They 
deduce  that  theory  from  the  habits  of  lower  ani- 
mals and  of  barbarous  nations,  in  which  the  man 
obtains  the  woman  by  chase  and  force.  But  it's 
all  a  theory,  and  simply  shows  that  the  learned 

155 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

writers  study  their  books  instead  of  their  fellow 
men  and  women." 

The  collegian  looked  restless,  as  if  the  conver- 
sation had  gotten  beyond  his  depth. 

Barry  remained  silent,  and  with  a  flattering 
aspect  of  great  interest  in  Welty's  observations. 

"  Now,"  went  on  Welty,  striking  the  table  with 
the  bottom  of  his  glass,  "  I've  had  a  little  experi- 
ence of  this  sort  of  thing  in  my  time,  and  I  can  say 
that  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  once  you've  attracted 
the  attention  of  your  game,  let  it  alone  and  it  will 
chase  you.  That's  how  to  win  women." 

The  collegian  looked  bored. 

"  Just  to  illustrate,"  said  Welty,  "  I'll  tell  of  a 
little  conquest  of  my  own.  I  use  it  because  it  is 
the  first  that  comes  to  my  mind,  not  that  I'm 
given  to  bragging  about  my  success  in  these  mat- 
ters. I  suppose  you've  seen  the  opera  at  the 

Theatre?  " 

The  collegian  ceased  looking  bored.  Barry 
McGettigan  sat  perfectly,  unnaturally  still. 

"  And,"  pursued  Welty,  "  you've  doubtless 
noticed  the  three  girls  who  appear  as  the  queen's 
maids  of  honour?  " 

The  collegian  looked  somewhat  concerned. 
Barry  stopped  breathing. 

"  Well,"  continued  Welty,  "  you  mayn't  be- 
156 


"THE  PROSTRATE  FORM  OF  AN  ASTONISHED  MAN." 


SHANDY'S   REVENGE 

lieve  it,  for  we've  kept  it  really  quiet,  one  of  them 
girls  is  really  dead  gone  on  me." 

The  collegian  opened  his  mouth  wide,  and  Barry 
began  to  nervously  tap  his  hand  upon  the  table. 

"  It's  the  one,"  said  Welty,  "  who  wears  the  big 
blond  wig.  Her  name's  Emi —  " 

There  was  the  noise  of  upsetting  plates,  bottles, 
and  glasses,  of  a  man's  feet  rapping  up  against  the 
bottom  of  a  table  and  his  head  thumping  down 
against  the  floor.  There  was  the  sight  of  an  agile 
youth  leaping  across  an  overturned  table  and 
alighting  with  one  foot  at  each  side  of  the  prostrate 
form  of  an  astonished  man,  whose  gray  whiskers 
were  spattered  with  blood.  There  was  the  quick 
gathering  of  a  crowd,  an  excited  explanation  on 
the  part  of  the  collegian,  a  slow  recovery  on  the 
part  of  the  man  on  the  floor,  and  Barry  McGetti- 
gan's  vengeance  was  complete. 

For,  by  one  of  those  incredible  coincidences  that 
have  the  semblance  of  fatality,  the  football 
player's  fist  had  reduced  Melrose  Welty's  nose  to 
a  flatness  which  the  nose  of  no  imaginable  Shandy 
ever  has  surpassed. 


157 


THE   \YHISTLE 


XIII 

THE     WHISTLE 

SHE  was  the  wife  of  a  railway  locomotive 
engineer,  and  the  two  lived  in  the  newly  built 
house  to  which  he  had  taken  her  as  a  bride  a  year 
before. 

Many  other  people  in  the  country  railroad  town 
used  to  laugh  at  a  thing  which  she  had  once  said 
to  a  gossiping  neighbour: 

"  I  can  tell  the  sound  of  the  whistle  on  Tom's 
engine  from  all  other  whistles.  Every  afternoon 
when  his  train  gets  to  the  crossing  at  the  planing- 
mill,  I  hear  that  whistle,  and  then  I  know  it's 
time  to  get  Tom's  supper." 

The  gossips  found  something  humourous  in  the 
fact  that  the  engineer's  wife  recognized  the  whistle 
of  her  husband's  engine  and  knew  by  it  when  to 
begin  to  prepare  his  supper.  So  are  the  small 
manifestations  of  love  and  devotion  regarded  by 
coarse  minds.  You  frequently  observe  this  in  the 
conduct  of  certain  people  at  the  theatre  when 
tender  sentiments  are  uttered  upon  the  stage. 

Perhaps  the  men  were  envious  of  the  engineer. 
161 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

He  had  a  prettier  wife,  they  said,  when  he  was  not 
present,  than  was  deserved  by  a  mere  freight 
engineer,  very  recently  elevated  from  the  post  of 
fireman.  Perhaps,  also,  the  petty  malevolence  of 
the  women  was  due  to  the  wife's  superior  comeli- 
ness. Be  that  as  it  may,  each  afternoon  at  half- 
past  four  or  thereabouts,  when  Tom's  whistle  was 
blown  at  the  crossing  by  the  planing-mill,  loungers 
in  the  grocery  store  and  wives  in  their  kitchens 
smiled  knowingly  and  said : 

"  Time  to  begin  to  get  Tom's  supper,  now." 
But  the  engineer  was  careless  and  his  wife  was 
disdainful  of  their  neighbours.  She  loved  the 
sound  of  that  whistle.  In  the  earliest  days  of  their 
married  life  it  even  sent  the  crimson  to  her  cheeks. 
The  engineer  could  make  it  as  expressive  as  music. 
It  began  like  a  sudden  glad  cry;  it  died  away 
lingeringly,  tenderly.  Virtually  it  said  to  one  pair 
of  ears: 

"  My  darling,  I  have  come  back  to  you." 
Whenever  the  engineer  pulled  the  rope  for  that 
particular  signal,  he  pictured  his  wife  arising  from 
her  work-basket  in  their  little  parlour  with  a  thrill 
of  pleasure  and  affection,  and  passing  out  to  the 
kitchen. 

She,   likewise,  at  the  signal,   made  a  mental 
image  of  Tom,  seated  in  the  engine  cab,  his  one 

162 


THE   WHISTLE 

hand  fixed  upon  the  shining  lever,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  glistening  tracks  ahead. 

At  six  o'clock,  usually,  supper  was  hot,  and 
Tom  arrived  through  the  front  gateway,  glancing 
at  the  flower-bed  in  the  centre  of  the  diminutive 
grass  plot,  carrying  his  dinner-pail,  having  divested 
himself  of  his  grimy,  greasy  blouse  and  overalls  at 
the  great  repair  shops,  where  his  engine  had  al- 
ready begun,  with  much  panting,  to  spend  the 
night. 

In  a  small  railroad  town  on  the  main  line,  one  is 
continually  hearing  locomotive  whistles.  All  the 
inhabitants  know  that  one  long  moan  of  the  steam 
is  the  signal  of  the  train's  swift  approach;  that 
two  short  shrieks  of  the  whistle  direct  the  train- 
men to  tighten  the  brakes ;  that  four,  given  when 
the  train  is  still,  are  intended  for  the  flagman,  who 
has  gone  away  to  the  rear  to  warn  back  the  next 
train,  and  that  they  tell  him  to  return  to  his  own 
train  as  it  is  about  to  start;  that  five  whistles  in 
succession  announce  a  wreck  and  command  the 
immediate  attendance  of  the  wreck  crew. 

In  the  town  many  cheeks  blanch  when  those 
five  long,  ominous  wails  of  the  escaping  steam 
cleave  the  air.  A  husband,  a  son,  a  father  who  has 
gone  forth  blithely  in  the  morning,  with  his  dinner- 
pail  full,  may  be  brought  out  of  the  wreck,  mangled 

163 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

or  dead.  And  until  complete  details  are  known 
there  is  a  tremor  in  the  whole  community.  Some 
hearts  beat  faster,  others  seem  to  stand  still. 
People  speak  in  hushed  tones. 

One  afternoon,  the  engineer's  wife,  observing 
the  altitude  of  the  sun,  looked  at  the  clock  and 
saw  that  the  time  was  a  few  minutes  before  five. 

Tom's  whistle  had  not  yet  blown. 

At  five-fifteen  came  the  sound  of  another 
whistle.  It  was  prolonged  and  then  repeated. 
The  engineer's  wife  stood  still  and  counted. 

Five! 

The  most  docile  and  apparently  cheerful  patient 

in  the Asylum  for  the  Insane  is  a  widow, 

still  young,  who  spends  the  greater  time  of  each 
day  sewing  and  humming  tunes  softly  to  herself. 
Every  afternoon  at  about  half-past  four  she 
assumes  a  listening  attitude,  suddenly  hears  an 
inaudible  whistle,  smiles  tenderly,  starts  up  and 
places  invisible  dishes  and  impalpable  viands  upon 
an  imaginary  table,  and  then  loses  herself  in  a 
reverie  which  ends  in  slumber. 

No  striking  clock  is  allowed  within  her  hearing. 
It  was  long  ago  noticed  that  the  stroke  of  five  or 
any  series  of  five  similar  sounds  would  cause  her 
to  moan  piteously. 

164 


THE   WHISTLE 

The  people  afar  in  the  country  town  do  not 
laugh  now  when  they  talk  of  Tom  and  the  whistle 
which  was  shrieking  madly  as  he  and  his  engine 
plunged  down  the  bank  together  on  that  day  when 
the  huge  boulder  rolled  from  the  hillside  stone 
quarry  and  lay  upon  the  tracks,  just  on  this  side 
of  the  curve  above  the  town. 


165 


WHISKERS 


XIV 

WHISKERS 

THE  facts  about  the  man  we  called  "  Whiskers  " 
linger  in  my  mind,  asking  to  be  recorded,  and 
though  they  do  not  make  much  of  a  story,  I  am 
tempted  to  unburden  myself  by  putting  them  on 
paper.  It  was  mentally  noted  as  a  sure  thing  by 
everybody  who  saw  him  go  into  the  managing 
editor's  room,  to  ask  for  a  position  on  the  staff  of 
the  paper,  that  if  he  should  obtain  a  place  and 
become  a  fixture  in  the  office,  he  would  be  generally 
known  as  Whiskers  within  twenty-four  hours  after 
his  instalment. 

What  tale  he  told  the  managing  editor  no  one 
knew,  but  every  one  in  the  editorial  rooms  deduced 
later  that  it  must  have  been  something  a  trifle  out 
of  the  common,  for  the  managing  editor,  who  had 
gone  through  the  form  of  taking  the  names  of 
three  previous  applicants  that  afternoon  and 
telling  them  that  he  would  let  them  know  when  a 
vacancy  should  occur  on  the  staff,  told  the  man 

169 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

whom  we  eventually  christened  Whiskers  that  he 
might  come  around  the  next  day  and  write 
whatever  he  might  choose  to  in  the  way  of  Sunday 
"  specials,"  comic  verses,  or  editorial  paragraphs, 
on  the  chance  of  their  being  accepted. 

The  next  day  the  hairy-faced  man  took  posses- 
sion of  a  desk  in  the  room  occupied  by  the  ex- 
change editor  and  one  of  the  editorial  writers,  and 
began  to  grind  out  "  copy." 

He  was  a  slim  figure,  with  what  is  commonly 
denominated  a  "  slight  stoop."  His  trousers  were 
none  too  long  for  his  thin  legs,  his  tightly  fitting 
frock  coat,  threadbare,  shiny,  and  unduly  creased, 
was  hardly  of  a  fit  for  his  slender  body  and  his 
long  arms.  It  was  his  face,  however,  that  mostly 
individualized  his  appearance. 

The  face  was  pale,  the  outlines  symmetrical,  but 
rather  feeble,  and  the  countenance  would  have 
seemed  rather  lamblike  but  for  the  fact  that  it  was 
framed  with  thick,  long  hair  and  a  luxuriant 
beard,  which  caressed  his  waistcoat. 

These  made  him  impressive  at  first  sight. 

On  the  first  day  of  his  presence,  he  said  little  to 
the  men  with  whom  he  shared  his  room  in  the 
office.  On  the  second  day  he  grew  communicative 
and  talked  rather  pompously  to  the  exchange 
editor.  He  prated  of  his  past  achievements  as  a 

170 


WHISKERS 

newspaper  man  in  other  cities.  He  had  a  cheerful 
way  of  talking  in  a  voice  that  was  high  but  not 
loud.  His  undaunted  manner  of  uttering  self- 
praise  caused  the  exchange  editor  to  wink  at  the 
editorial  writer.  It  engendered,  too,  a  small  degree 
of  dislike  on  the  part  of  these  worthies;  and  the 
exchange  editor  made  it  a  point  to  watch  for  some 
of  the  new  man's  work  in  the  paper,  that  he  might 
be  certain  whether  the  new  man's  ability  was  equal 
to  the  new  man's  opinion  of  it. 

The  exchange  editor  found  that  it  was  not.  The 
new  man  had  been  in  the  office  four  days  before 
any  of  his  contributions  had  gone  through  the 
process  of  creation,  acceptance,  and  publication. 
Some  verses  and  some  alleged  jokes  were  his  first 
matter  printed.  They  were  below  mediocrity. 
The  exchange  editor  ceased  to  dislike  the  whiskered 
man  and  thereafter  regarded  him  as  quite  harmless 
and  mildly  amusing. 

This  view  of  him  was  eventually  accepted  by 
every  one  who  came  to  know  him,  and  he  was 
made  the  object  of  a  good  deal  of  gentle  chaffing. 

He  earned  probably  $15  or  $20  at  space  rates, 
a  lamentably  small  amount  for  so  intellectual 
looking  a  man,  but  a  very  large  amount  consider- 
ing the  quality  of  work  turned  out  by  him. 

Doubtless  he  would  not  have  made  nearly  so 
171 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

much  had  not  the  managing  editor  whispered 
something  in  the  ears  of  the  assistant  editor-in- 
chief,  whose  duty  it  was  to  judge  of  the  accepta- 
bility of  editorial  matter  offered,  the  editor  of  the 
Sunday's  supplement,  and  other  members  of  the 
staff  who  might  have  occasion  to  "  turn  down  " 
the  new  man's  contributions,  or  to  wink  at  the 
deficiencies  in  his  work. 

One  day  Whiskers,  with  many  apologies  and 
much  embarrassment,  asked  the  exchange  editor 
to  lend  him  a  quarter,  which  request  having  been 
complied  with,  he  put  on  his  much  rubbed  high 
hat  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

"It's  funny  the  old  man's  hard  up  so  soon," 
the  exchange  editor  said  to  the  editorial  writer  at 
the  next  desk.  "  It's  only  two  days  since  pay- 
day." 

"  Where  does  he  sink  his  money?  "  asked  the 
editorial  writer.  "  His  sleeping-room  costs  him 
only  $3  a  week,  and,  eating  the  way  he  does,  at  the 
cheapest  hash-houses,  his  whole  expenses  can't  be 
more  than  $8.  No  one  ever  sees  him  spend  a  cent. 
He  must  sink  it  away  in  a  bank." 

"  Hasn't  he  any  relatives?  " 

"  He  never  spoke  of  any,  and  he  lives  alone. 
Wotherspoon,  who  lodges  where  he  does,  says  no 
one  ever  comes  to  see  him." 

172 


WHISKERS 

"  He  certainly  doesn't  spend  money  on  clothes." 

"  No;  and  he  never  drinks  at  his  own  expense." 

"  He's  probably  leading  a  double  life,"  said  the 

exchange    editor,    jestingly,    as    he    plunged   his 

scissors  into  a  Western  paper,  to  cut  out  a  poem 

by  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

Without  making  many  acquaintances,  Whis- 
kers, by  reason  of  his  hirsute  peculiarity,  became 
known  throughout  the  building,  from  the  busi- 
ness office  on  the  ground  floor  to  the  composing- 
room  on  the  top.  When  he  went  into  the  latter 
one  day  and  passed  down  the  long  aisle  between 
the  long  row  of  cases  and  type-setting  machines, 
with  a  corrected  proof  in  his  hand,  a  certain 
printer,  who  was  "  setting  "  up  a  clothing-house 
advertisement,  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
give  labial  imitation  of  the  blowing  of  wind.  The 
bygone  joke  concerning  whiskers  and  the  wind 
was  then  current,  and  a  score  of  compositors  took 
up  the  whistle,  so  that  all  varieties  of  breeze  were 
soon  being  simulated  simultaneously.  Whiskers 
coloured  sightly,  but,  save  a  dignified  straighten- 
ing of  his  shoulders,  he  showed  no  other  sign  that 
he  was  conscious  of  the  rude  allusion  to  his  copious 
beard. 

Whiskers  chose  Tuesday  for  his  day  off. 
It  was  on  a  certain  Tuesday  evening  that  one  of 
173 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

the  reporters  came  into  the  exchange  editor's 
room  and  casually  remarked : 

"  I  saw  your  anti-shaving  friend,  who  sits  at 
that  desk,  riding  out  to  the  suburbs  on  a  car  to-day. 
He  was  all  crushed  up  and  carried  a  bouquet  of 
roses." 

"  That  settles  it,"  cried  the  editorial  writer  to 
the  exchange  editor,  with  mock  jubilation. 
"  There  can  be  no  doubt  the  old  man  was  leading 
a  double  life.  The  bouquet  means  a  woman  in  the 
case." 

"  And  his  money  goes  for  flowers  and  presents," 
added  the  exchange  editor. 

"  Some  of  it,  of  course,"  went  on  the  editorial 
writer,  "  and  the  rest  he's  saving  to  get  married 
on.  Who'd  have  thought  it  at  his  age?  " 

"  Why,  he's  not  over  forty.  It's  only  his 
whiskers  that  make  him  look  old.  One  can  easily 
detect  a  sentimental  vein  in  his  composition." 

"  That  accounts  for  his  fits  of  abstraction,  too. 
So  he's  found  favour  in  some  fair  one's  eyes.  I 
wonder  what  she's  like." 

"  Young  and  pretty,  I'll  bet,"  said  the  exchange 
editor.  "  He's  impressed  her  by  his  dignified 
aspect.  No  doubt  she  thinks  he's  nothing  less 
than  an  editor-in-chief." 

The  next  day  Whiskers  was  taciturn,  as  his 
174 


WHISKERS 

office  associates  now  recalled  that  he  was  wont  to 
be  after  "  his  day  off."  Doubtless  his  thoughts 
dwelt  upon  his  visits  to  his  divinity.  He  did  not 
respond  to  their  efforts  to  involve  him  in  conver- 
sation. 

He  was  observed  upon  his  next  day  off  to  take 
a  car  for  the  suburbs  and  to  have  a  bouquet  in  his 
hand  and  a  package  under  his  arm.  The  theory 
originated  by  the  editorial  writer  had  general 
acceptance.  It  was  passed  from  man  to  man  in 
the  office. 

"  Have  you  heard  about  the  queer  old  duck 
with  the  whiskers,  who  writes  in  the  exchange 
room?  He's  engaged  to  a  young  and  pretty  girl 
up-town,  and  eats  at  fifteen-cent  soup-shops  so 
that  he  can  buy  her  flowers  and  wine  and  things." 

"  What!  Old  Whiskers  in  love!  That's  a  good 
one!" 

One  day  while  Whiskers'  pen  was  busily  gliding 
across  the  paper,  the  exchange  editor  broke  the 
silence  by  asking  him,  in  a  careless  tone : 

"  How  was  she,  yesterday,  Mr.  Croydon?  " 

Whiskers  looked  up  almost  quickly,  an  expres- 
sion of  almost  pained  surprise  on  his  face. 

"Who?"    he  inquired. 

"  Ah,  you  thought  because  you  didn't  tell  us, 
it  wouldn't  out.  But  you've  been  caught.  I  mean 

175 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

the  lady  to  whom  you  take  roses  every  week,  of 
course." 

Whiskers  simply  stared  at  the  exchange  editor, 
as  if  quite  bewildered. 

"  Oh,  pardon  me,"  said  the  exchange  editor, 
somewhat  abashed.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  offend 
you.  One's  affairs  of  the  heart  are  sacred,  I  know. 
But  we  all  guy  each  other  about  each  other's 
amours  here.  We're  hardened  to  that  sort  of 
pleasantry." 

A  look  of  enlightenment,  a  blush,  a  deep  sigh, 
and  an  "  Oh,  I'm  not  offended,"  were  the  only 
manifestations  made  by  Whiskers  after  the  ex- 
change editor's  apology. 

It  was  inferred  from  his  manner  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  make  confidences  or  receive  jests  about 
his  love-affairs. 

A  time  came  when  Whiskers  seemed  to  have 
something  constantly  on  his  mind.  Not  content 
with  one  day's  vacation  each  week,  he  would  go 
off  for  periods  of  three  or  four  hours  on  other  days. 

"  Do  you  notice  how  queerly  the  old  man 
behaves?  "  said  the  editorial  writer  to  the  ex- 
change editor  thereupon.  "  Things  are  coming  to 
a  crisis." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Why,  the  wedding,  of  course." 
176 


WHISKERS 

This  inference  received  a  show  of  confirmation 
afterward  when  Whiskers  had  a  private  interview 
with  the  managing  editor,  received  an  order  on  the 
cashier  for  all  the  money  due  him,  and  for  a  part 
of  the  managing  editor's  salary  as  a  loan,  and 
quietly  said  to  the  exchange  editor  that  he  would 
be  away  for  a  week  or  so.  The  editorial  writer 
happened  to  be  at  the  cashier's  window  when 
Whiskers  had  his  order  cashed.  So  when  the 
editorial  writer  and  the  exchange  editor  compared 
notes  a  few  minutes  later,  the  latter  complimented 
the  former  upon  the  correctness  of  his  prediction 
that  Whiskers'  marriage  was  imminent. 

"  He  didn't  invite  us,"  said  the  exchange  editor, 
"  but  then  I  suppose  the  affair  is  to  be  a  very 
quiet  one,  and  we  can't  take  offence  at  that.  The 
old  man's  not  a  bad  lot,  by  any  means.  Let's  do 
something  to  please  him  and  to  flatter  his  bride. 
What  do  you  say  to  raising  a  fund  to  buy  them  a 
present,  in  the  name  of  the  staff?  " 

"I'm  in  for  it,"  said  the  editorial  writer,  pro- 
ducing a  half-dollar. 

They  canvassed  the  office  and  found  everybody 
willing  to  contribute.  The  managing  editor  and 
the  assistant  editor-in-chief  had  gone  home,  but 
as  they  had  shown  kindness  to  Whiskers,  and 
were,  in  fact,  the  only  two  men  on  the  staff  who 

177 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

knew  anything  about  his  private  affairs,  the 
exchange  editor  took  his  chances  and  put  in  a 
dollar  for  each  of  them. 

"And  now,  what  shall  we  get  —  and  where 
shall  we  send  it?  "  said  the  exchange  editor. 

"  Not  to  his  lodging-house,  certainly.  He'll 
probably  be  married  at  the  residence  of  his  bride's 
parents,  as  the  notices  say.  We'd  better  get  it 
quick,  and  rush  it  up  there  —  wherever  that  is  — 
somewhere  up-town." 

"•But  say,"  interposed  the  city  editor,  who  was 
present  at  this  consultation,  "  maybe  the  ceremony 
has  already  come  off.  I  saw  the  old  man  giving  in 
a  notice  for  advertisement  across  the  counter  at 
the  business  office  an  hour  ago." 

"  Well,  we  may  be  able  to  learn  from  that  where 
the  bride  lives,  anyhow,  and  some  one  can  go 
there  and  find  out  something  definite  about  the 
happy  pair's  present  and  future  whereabouts," 
suggested  the  editorial  writer. 

"That's  so,"  said  the  city  editor.  "The 
notice  is  in  the  composing-room  by  this  time.  I'll 
run  up  and  find  it." 

The  city  editor  left  the  editorial  writer  and  the 
exchange  editor  alone  together  in  the  room,  each 
sitting  at  their  own  desk. 


178 


WHISKERS 

"  What  shall  we  get  with  this  money?  "  queried 
the  former,  touching  the  bills  and  silver  dumped 
upon  his  desk. 

"  Something  to  please  the  woman.  That'll  give 
Whiskers  the  most  pleasure.  He  evidently  loves 
her  deeply.  These  constant  visits  and  gifts  speak 
the  greatest  devotion." 

"  Of  course,  but  what  shall  it  be?  " 

The  two  were  battling  with  this  question  when 
the  city  editor  returned.  He  came  in  and  said 
quietly : 

"  I  found  the  notice.  At  least,  I  suppose  this 
is  it.  What  is  the  old  man's  full  name?  " 

"  Horace  W.  Croydon." 

"  This  is  it,  then,"  said  the  city  editor,  standing 
with  his  back  to  the  door.  "  The  notice  reads: 
'  On  March  3d,  at  the  Arlington  Hospital  for  In- 
curables, Rachel,  widow  of  the  late  Horace  W. 
Croydon,  Sr.,  in  her  $gih  year.  Funeral  services 
at  the  residence  of  Charles  —  '  " 

"  Why,"  interrupted  the  editorial  writer,  in  a 
hushed  voice,  "  that  is  a  death  notice." 

"  His  mother,"  said  the  exchange  editor.  "  The 
Hospital  for  Incurables  —  that  is  where  the  flowers 
went." 

The  editorial  writer's  glance  dropped  to  the 


179 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

desk,  where  the  money  lay  for  the  intended  gift. 
The  exchange  editor  sat  perfectly  still,  gazing 
straight  in  front  of  him.  The  city  editor  walked 
softly  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 


180 


THE   BAD  BREAK  OF  TOBIT 
McSTENGER 


XV 

THE    BAD    BREAK    OF   TOBIT   McSTENGER 

"  I'M  a  bad  man,"  said  Tobit  McStenger,  after 
three  glasses  of  whiskey.  And  he  was.  In  making 
the  declaration,  he  echoed  the  expression  of  the 
community. 

He  looked  it.  Not  only  in  the  sneering  mouth 
above  the  half -formed  chin,  and  in  the  lowering 
eyes  of  undecided  colour  beneath  the  receding 
brow,  but  also  in  every  shiftless  attitude  and 
movement  of  his  great  gaunt  body,  and  even  in 
the  torn  coat  and  shapeless  felt  hat  —  both  once 
black,  but  both  now  a  dirty  gray  —  his  aspect 
proclaimed  him  the  preeminent  rowdy  of  his  town. 

When  out  of  jail  he  was  engaged  in  oyster  open- 
ing at  Couch's  saloon,  or  selling  fresh  fish,  caught 
in  the  river,  or  vagrancy  in  the  streets  of  Brick- 
ville.  He  lived  in  a  log  house  containing  two 
rooms,  by  Muddy  Creek,  an  intermittent  stream 
that  flowed  —  sometimes  —  through  a  corner  of 
the  town.  He  was  a  widower  and  had  a  son  nine 

183 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

years  old,  little  Tobe,  who  went  to  school  occa- 
sionally, but  gave  most  of  his  day  to  carrying  a 
paper  flour-sack  around  the  town  and  begging  cold 
victuals,  in  obedience  to  paternal  commands,  and 
throwing  stones  at  other  boys,  who  called  him 
"  Patches,"  a  nickname  descended  from  his  father. 

Little  Tobe's  face  was  always  black,  from  the 
dust  of  the  bituminous  coal  that  he  was  compelled 
to  steal  at  night  from  the  railroad  companies'  yard. 
His  attire  was  in  miniature  what  his  father's  was 
in  the  large,  as  his  character  was  in  embryo  what 
the  elder  Tobit's  was  in  complete  development. 
With  long,  entangled  hair,  a  thin,  crafty  face,  and 
stealthy  eyes,  he  was  a  true  type  of  malevolent 
gamin,  all  the  more  uncanny  for  the  crudity  due 
to  his  semirustic  environments. 

Such  were  Tobit  and  little  Tobe,  the  most  con- 
spicuous of  the  village  "  characters  "  of  Brick- 
ville,  a  Pennsylvania  town  deriving  sustenance 
from  its  brick-kiln,  its  railroads,  and  its  contiguous 
farming  interests. 

It  was  town  talk  that  Tobit  McStenger  was  a 
hard  father;  drunk  or  sober,  he  chastised  little 
Tobe  upon  the  slightest  occasion. 

"  But,"  said  Tobit  McStenger,  after  admitting 
his  severity  as  a  parent  before  the  bar  in  Couch's 
saloon,  "  let  any  one  else  lay  a  ringer  on  that  kid! 

184 


THE  BAD  BREAK  OF  TOBIT  McSTENGER 

Just  let  'em!  They'll  find  out,  jail  or  no  jail,  I'm 
ugly!  "  And  he  went  on  to  repeat  for  the  thou- 
sandth time  that  when  he  was  ugly  he  was  a  bad 
man. 

Whereupon  the  other  loungers  in  Couch's 
saloon,  "  Honesty  Tom  Yerkes,"  the  hauler,  Sam 
Hatch,  the  bill-poster,  and  the  rest,  agreed  that  a 
man's  manner  of  governing  his  household  was  his 
own  business. 

Tobit  McStenger  had  his  word  to  say  upon  all 
village  topics.  When  in  Couch's  saloon  one  night 
he  learned  that  the  school  directors  had  decided 
to  take  the  primary  school  from  the  tutorship  of 
a  woman  and  to  put  a  man  over  it  as  teacher, 
Tobit  pricked  up  his  ears  and  had  many  words  to 
say.  He  was  working  at  the  time,  and  he  spoke  in 
loud,  coarse  tones,  as  he  wielded  his  oyster-knife, 
having  for  an  audience  the  usual  dozen  barroom 
tarriers. 

"  I  know  what  that  means,"  cried  Tobit  Mc- 
Stenger. "  It  means  they  ain't  satisfied  with  hav- 
ing our  children  ruled  with  kindness.  It  means 
Miss  Wiggins,  who's  kep'  a  good  school,  which  I 
know  all  about,  fer  my  son's  one  of  her  scholars  — 
it  means  she  don't  use  the  rod  enough.  They've 
made  up  their  minds  to  control  the  kids  by  force, 
and  they  went  and  hired  a  man  to  lick  book 

185 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

learnin'  into  'em.  Who  is  the  feller,  any- 
way? " 

"  Pap  "  Buckwalder  read  the  answer  to  Tobit's 
question  from  the  current  number  of  the  Brick- 
ville  Weekly  Gazette. 

"  The  new  teacher  is  Aubrey  Pilling,  the  adopted 
son  of  farmer  Josiah  Pilling,  of  Blair  Township. 
He  has  taught  the  school  of  that  township  for 
three  winters,  and  is  a  graduate  of  the  Brickville 
Academy." 

Sam  Hatch,  standing  by  the  stove,  remembered 
him. 

"  Why,  that's  the  backward  fellow,"  said  he, 
"  that  the  girls  used  to  guy.  His  hair  and  eye- 
brows is  as  white  as  tow,  and  when  he'd  blush  his 
face  used  to  turn  pink.  He  always  walked  in 
from  the  country,  four  miles,  every  morning  to 
school  and  back  again  at  night.  There  ain't  much 
use  getting  him  take  a  woman's  place.  He's  about 
the  same  as  a  woman  hisself.  He  hardly  talks 
above  a  whisper,  and  he's  afraid  to  look  a  girl  in 
the  face." 

"  Ain't  he  the  boy  Josiah  Pilling  took  out  o'  the 
Orphans'  Home,  here  about  twenty  years  ago?  " 
queried  Pap  Buckwalder. 

'  Yep,"  replied  Hatch.  "  I  heerd  somethin' 
about  that  when  he  went  to  the  'cademy  here. 

186 


THE  BAD  BREAK  OF  TOBIT  McSTENGER 

He  was  took  out  of  a  home  by  a  farmer,  who  gave 
him  his  name  'cause  the  boy  didn't  know  his  own, 
nor  no  one  else  did,  and  so  he  was  brought  up  on 
the  farm." 

"  So  that's  the  sort  o'  people  they've  put  the 
education  of  our  children  into  the  hands  uv!  " 
exclaimed  Tobit  McStenger.  "  Well,  all  I  got  to 
say  is,  let  him  keep  his  hands  off  my  boy  Tobe,  or 
he'll  find  out  the  kind  of  a  tough  customer  I  am." 

Tobit  McStenger,  in  the  few  weeks  immediately 
following  this  change  in  the  primary  school,  re- 
mained continuously  industrious,  to  the  surprise  of 
all  who  knew  him.  As  Tobit  was  an  expeditious 
oyster-opener,  Tony  Couch,  the  saloon-keeper  who 
employed  him,  was  much  rejoiced.  Tobit  toiled 
at  oyster-opening  and  little  Tobe  became  regular 
in  his  attendance  at  school. 

The  new  school-teacher,  a  broad,  awkward, 
bashful  youth,  painfully  blond,  came  to  town  and 
accomplished  that  for  which  he  had  been  called. 
He  brought  discipline  to  the  primary  school,  an 
achievement  none  easier  for  the  fact  that  many  of 
his  pupils  were  in  their  teens,  and  incidentally  he 
suspended  Tobit  McStenger  the  younger. 

When  little  Tobe,  glad  of  the  enforced  return  to 
the  liberties  of  his  begging  days,  brought  home  his 
soiled  first  reader  and  told  his  father  that  the 

187 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

teacher  had  sent  him  from  school  with  orders  not 
to  return  until  he  could  learn  to  keep  his  face  clean, 
the  father  became  swollen  with  an  overflowing 
wrath.  He  swore  frightfully,  and  started  off, 
vowing  that  he  would  "  show  the  white-faced 
foundling  how  to  treat  decent  people's  chil- 
dren." 

And  he  had  two  tall  drinks  of  whiskey  put  on  the 
slate  against  him  at  Couch's  and  proceeded  to  carry 
out  his  threat. 

It  was  a  cold  day  in  December.  Pilling,  the 
teacher,  sat  near  the  stove  in  the  little  square 
school-room,  listening  to  the  irrepressible  hum  of 
his  restless  pupils  and  the  predominating  monot- 
onous sound  of  a  small  girl's  voice  reciting  multi- 
plication tables. 

"  Three  times  three  are  nine,"  she  whined, 
drawlingly;  "three  times  four  are  twelve,  three 
times  —  " 

The  little  girl  with  the  braided  hair  stopped 
short.  A  loud  knock  fell  upon  the  door. 

A  boy  looked  through  the  window,  evidently 
saw  the  one  who  had  knocked,  then  cast  a  curious 
look  at  Pilling,  the  teacher.  Pilling  observed  this, 
and  asked  the  boy : 

"Who  is  it?" 

After  a  moment  of  hesitation,  the  boy  replied: 
188 


THE  BAD  BREAK  OF  TOBIT  McSTENGER 

"  It's  old  Patchy  —  I  mean,  Tobe  McStenger's 
father." 

Pilling,  whose  bashfulness  was  manifest  only  in 
the  presence  of  women,  had  the  utmost  calmness 
before  his  pupils.  He  walked  quietly  to  the  door 
and  locked  it. 

McStenger,  furious  without,  heard  the  sound  of 
the  bolt  being  thrust  into  place,  whereupon  he 
began  to  kick  at  the  door.  Pilling  turned  the  chair 
facing  his  class  and  told  the  girl  with  the  braided 
hair  to  continue. 

"  Three  times  five  are  fifteen,  three  times  six  — " 

A  crashing  sound  was  heard.  McStenger  had 
broken  a  window.  Pilling  looked  around,  as  if 
seeking  some  impromptu  weapon.  While  he  was 
doing  so,  McStenger  broke  another  window-pane 
with  a  club.  Then  McStenger  went  away. 

That  evening,  Pilling  had  Tobit  McStenger 
arrested  for  malicious  mischief.  The  oyster-opener 
was  held  pending  trial  until  January  court.  He 
was  then  sentenced  to  thirty  days  more  in  the 
county  jail.  Meanwhile  little  Tobe  mounted  a 
freight-train  one  day  to  steal  a  ride,  and  Brick- 
ville  has  not  seen  or  heard  of  him  since.  He 
enlisted  in  the  great  army  of  vagabonds,  doubtless. 
Perhaps  some  city  swallowed  him. 

Tobit  McStenger  felt  at  home  in  jail.  It  was  not 
189 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

a  bad  place  of  residence  during  the  coldest  months. 
But  for  one  defect,  jail  life  would  have  been  quite 
enviable-;  it  forced  upon  him  abstinence  from 
alcoholic  liquor. 

Every  period  of  thirty  days  has  its  termination, 
and  Tobit  McStenger  became  a  free  man.  He 
returned  to  his  old  life,  opening  oysters  during 
part  of  the  time,  idling  and  drinking  during  the 
other  part.  He  made  no  attempt  to  spoil  the 
peace  of  Aubrey  Pilling,  and  he  only  laughed 
when  he  heard  of  the  disappearance  of  Little  Tobe. 

Pilling,  by  his  success  in  conducting  the  primary 
school,  had  won  the  esteem  of  Brickville's  citizens. 
His  timidity  had  diminished,  or,  rather,  it  had  been 
discovered  to  be  merely  quietness,  self-communion, 
instead  of  timidity.  He  had  shown  himself  less 
prudish  than  he  had  been  thought.  Occasionally 
he  drank  whiskey  or  beer,  which  was  looked  upon 
as  a  good  sign  in  a  man  of  his  kind. 

Tobit  McStenger  did  not  know  this.  He  invari- 
ably evaded  mention  of  Pilling.  People  wondered 
what  would  happen  when  the  two  should  meet. 
For  Tobit  was  known  to  be  revengful,  and  he  was 
now,  more  than  ever,  in  speech  and  look,  a  bad 
man. 

The  expected  and  yet  the  unexpected  happened 
one  night  in  Couch's  saloon,  —  the  scene  of  most 

190 


THE  BAD  BREAK  OF  TOBIT  McSTENGER 

of  the  eventful  incidents  in  Tobit  McStenger's  life 
since  he  had  dawned  upon  Brickville.  Tobit  and 
Honesty  Yerkes,  Pap  Buckwalder,  old  Tony 
Couch  himself,  and  half  a  score  others  were  majcing 
a  conversational  hubbub  before  the  bar. 

In  walked  Aubrey  Pilling.  He  came  quietly  to 
an  unoccupied  spot  at  the  end  of  the  bar  and 
ordered  a  glass  of  beer,  without  looking  at  the 
other  drinkers.  Some  one  nudged  Tobit  McStenger 
and  pointed  toward  the  white-haired  young 
pedagogue.  The  noise  of  talk  broke  off  abruptly. 

McStenger  placed  his  back  against  the  bar, 
resting  his  elbows  upon  it,  and  turned  a  scornful 
gaze  toward  Pilling,  who  had  taken  one  draught 
from  his  glass  of  beer. 

"  Say,  Tony,"  began  McStenger,  in  his  big, 
growling  voice,  "  who's  your  ladylike  customer? 
Oh,  it's  him,  is  it?  Well,  he  needn't  be  skeered  of 
me.  I  don't  mix  up  with  folks  o'  his  sort.  You 
see,  people  could  only  expect  to  be  insulted  through 
their  children  by  fellows  of  his  birth  — ' 

"  Hush,  Mack!  "  whispered  Tony  Couch,  whose 
sense  of  deportment  advised  him  that  McStenger 
was  treading  forbidden  ground.  Pilling  had  not 
looked  up.  He  stood  quietly  at  some  distance 
from  the  others,  intent  upon  his  glass  of  beer  on 
the  bar  before  him,  perfectly  still. 

191 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

But  McStenger  went  on,  more  loudly  than 
before : 

"  By  fellows,  as  I  said,  who  came  from  orphans' 
homes,  and  never  knew  who  their  parents  was, 
and  whose  mothers  may  have  been  God  knows 
what  —  " 

Pilling,  without  turning,  had  lifted  his  glass. 
With  an  easy  motion  he  had  tossed  its  remaining 
contents  of  beer  into  the  face  of  Tobit  McStenger. 
The  latter  drew  back  from  the  splash  of  the  liquid 
as  if  stung.  Then,  with  a  loud  cry  of  rage,  he 
leaped  toward  Pilling.  The  teacher  turned  and 
faced  him. 

McStenger  clapped  one  huge  hand  against 
Filling's  neck,  and  in  an  instant  thereafter  his 
long,  bony  fingers  were  pressing  upon  the  teacher's 
throat,  in  what  had  the  looks  of  a  fatal  clutch. 
But  Pilling,  with  both  his  arms,  violently  forced 
McStenger  from  him.  The  teacher  took  breath 
and  McStenger  reached  for  a  whiskey  decanter. 
The  others  in  the  saloon  looked  on  with  eager 
interest,  fearing  to  come  between  such  formidable 
combatants.  Tony  Couch  ran  out  in  search  of  the 
town's  only  policeman.  McStenger  advanced 
toward  the  teacher. 

Pilling  was  farm  bred.  He  had  chopped  down 
trees  with  his  right  arm  alone  in  his  time.  Pilling 

192 


THE  BAD  BREAK  OF  TOBIT  McSTENGER 

thrust  forth  his  arm  with  unexpected  suddenness. 
Upon  the  floor,  six  feet  behind  his  antagonist,  was 
a  cuspidor  with  jagged  edges. 

And  Tobit  McStenger  slept  with  his  fathers. 

The  jury  acquitted  the  teacher  on  the  plea  of 
self-defence.  The  loungers  in  Couch's  saloon 
judiciously  said  that  it  was  a  very  bad  break  for 
Tobit  McStenger  to  have  made. 


193 


THE  SCARS 


XVI 

THE    SCARS 

MY  friend  the  tune-maker  has  often  uninten- 
tionally amused  his  acquaintances  by  the  gravity 
with  which  he  attributes  significance  to  the  most 
trivial  occurrences. 

He  turns  the  most  thoughtless  speeches,  uttered 
in  jest,  into  prophecies. 

"  Very  well,"  he  used  to  say  to  us  at  a  cafe"  table, 
"  you  may  laugh.  But  it's  astonishing  how  things 
turn  out  sometimes." 

"  As  for  instance?  "    some  one  would  inquire. 

"  Never  mind.  But  I  could  give  an  instance  if 
I  wished  to  do  so." 

One  evening,  over  a  third  bottle,  he  grew  un- 
usually communicative. 

"  Just  to  illustrate  how  things  happen,"  he 
began,  speaking  so  as  to  be  audible  above  the  din 
of  the  cafe  to  the  rest  of  us  around  the  table,  "I'll 
tell  you  about  a  man  I  know.  One  February 
morning,  about  eight  years  ago,  he  was  hurrying 

197 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

to  catch  a  train.  There  was  ice  on  the  sidewalks 
and  people  had  to  walk  cautiously  or  ride.  As  he 
was  turning  a  corner  he  saw  by  a  clock  that  he  had 
only  five  minutes  in  which  to  reach  the  station, 
three  blocks  away.  An  instant  later  he  saw  a 
shapely  figure  in  soft  furs  suddenly  describe  a  for- 
ward movement  and  drop  in  a  heap  to  the  side- 
walk, ten  feet  in  front  of  him.  A  melodious  light 
soprano  scream  arose  from  the  heap.  A  divinely 
turned  ankle  in  a  quite  human  black  stocking  was 
momentarily  visible.  He  was  by  the  side  of  the 
mass  of  furs  and  skirts  in  three  steps. 

"  He  caught  the  pretty  girl  under  the  arms  and 
elevated  her  to  a  standing  posture.  She  recovered 
her  breath  and  her  self-possession  promptly  and 
glowed  upon  him  with  the  brightest  of  smiles. 
He  had  never  before  seen  her. 

"  '  Oh,  thank  you,'  she  said;  adding,  with  the 
unconscious  exaggeration  of  a  schoolgirl,  '  You've 
saved  my  life.' 

"  Realizing  the  absurdity  of  this  speech,  she 
blushed.  Whereupon  her  rescuer,  feeling  that  the 
situation  warranted  him  in  turning  the  matter 
to  jest,  replied: 

"  '  That  being  the  case,  according  to  the  rules 
of  romance,  I  ought  to  marry  you,  like  all  the  men 
who  rescue  the  heroines  in  stories.' 

198 


THE    SCARS 

"  '  Oh,'  she  answered,  quickly,  '  this  isn't  in  a 
novel;  it's  real  life.' 

"  '  Yes;  besides  which,  I  see  by  the  clock  over 
there  I  have  only  four  minutes  in  which  to  catch  a 
train.  Good  morning.' 

"  And  he  ran  off  without  taking  a  second  glance 
at  her.  He  arrived  at  the  station  in  due  time. 

"  Three  years  after  that  he  married  the  most 
charming  woman  in  the  world,  after  an  acquaint- 
ance of  only  six  months. 

"  This  woman  is  as  beautiful  as  she  is  amiable. 
Nature  has  not  been  guilty  of  a  single  defect  in  her 
construction.  A  tiny  scar  upon  her  knee  is  all  the 
more  noticeable  because  of  its  solitude. 

"It  is  a  peculiarity  of  scars  that  each  has  a 
history.  The  history  of  this  one  has  thus  far,  for 
no  adequate  reason,  remained  a  family  secret. 

"  Another  noteworthy  fact  about  scars  is  that 
they  may  be,  and  in  many  cases  they  are,  useful 
for  purposes  of  identification. 

"  Of  course  you  anticipate  the  dramatic  climax 
of  my  story,  gentlemen.  Nevertheless,  let  me  give 
it,  for  the  sake  of  completeness,  in  the  form  of  a 
dialogue  between  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

"  '  How  came  the  wound  there? ' 

"  '  Oh,  I  fell  against  the  corner  of  a  paving- 
stone  one  icy  morning  three  years  ago.' 

199 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  '  And  to  think  that  I  was  not  there  to  help 
you  up! ' 

"  'True;  but  another  young  man  served  the 
purpose,  and  I'm  fraid  he  missed  a  train  on  my 
account.' 

"  'What!  It  wasn't  on  the  corner  of  

and  Streets? ' 

"  '  It  was  just  there.    How  did  you  know? ' 

"  So  you  see,  as  they  completely  proved  by 
comparing  recollections,  the  little  speech  uttered 
in  merriment  had  been  prophetic,  a  fact  that  they 
probably  would  never  have  learned  had  it  not  been 
for  the  identifying  service  of  the  scar." 

"  But  if  this  has  been  kept  a  family  secret,  how 
do  you  happen  to  know  it,  and  by  what  right  do 
you  divulge  it?  "  one  of  us  asked. 

The  ballad  composer  blushed  and  clouded  his 
face  with  tobacco  smoke ;  and  then  it  recurred  to 
us  all  that  "  the  most  charming  woman  in  the 
world  "  is  his  wife. 


200 


LA  GITANA 


XVII 

"  LA     GITANA  " 

THIS  is  not  an  attempt  to  palliate  the  foolish- 
ness of  Billy  Folsom.  It  is  not  an  essay  in  the 
emotional  or  the  pathetic.  You  may  pity  him  or 
reproach  him,  if  you  like,  but  my  purpose  is  not  to 
evoke  any  feeling  toward  or  opinion  of  him.  I  do 
not  seek  to  play  upon  your  sympathies  or  to  put 
you  into  a  mood,  or  to  delineate  a  character.  I 
simply  tell  the  story  of  how  certain  critical  points 
in  a  man's  life  were  accompanied  by  music ;  how 
a  destiny  was  affected  by  a  tune.  Anything  aside 
from  mere  narrative  in  this  account  will  be  inci- 
dental and  accidental.  The  manifestations  of  love, 
of  wounded  vanity,  of  recklessness;  of  even  the 
death  itself,  are  here  subsidiary  in  interest  to 
the  train  of  circumstance.  He  who  underwent 
them  is  not  the  hero  of  the  recital;  she  who 
caused  them  is  not  the  heroine.  The  heroine  is 
a  melody,  the  waltz  tune  of  "La  Gitana." 

Everybody  remembers  when  the  tune  was 
regnant.  Its  notes  leaped  gaily  from  the  strings  of 

203 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

every  theatre  orchestra;  soubrettes  in  fluffy 
raiment  and  silk  stockings  yelled  it  singly  and  in 
chorus;  hand-organs  blared  it  forth;  dancers 
kicked  up  their  toes  to  it;  it  monopolized  the 
atmosphere  for  its  dwelling-place;  it  was  every- 
where. 

Until  one  night,  however,  it  did  not  touch  the 
ear  of  Billy  Folsom.  He  had  stayed  late  in  the 
country,  under  the  delusion  that  he  was  hunting. 
It  seems  there  are  a  few  shootable  things  yet  in 
certain  parts  of  Pennsylvania,  and  Folsom  had 
the  time  and  money  to  linger  in  search  of  them. 
He  came  back  to  town  in  fine,  exhilarating  Novem- 
ber weather,  and  on  one  of  these  evenings  when  the 
joy  of  living  is  keenest,  he  and  I  strolled  with  the 
crowd.  Why  I  strolled  with  Folsom  I  do  not 
know,  for  he  was  not  a  man  of  ideas.  He  was  even 
so  bad  as  to  be  vain  of  his  personal  appearance, 
especially  upon  having  resumed  the  dress  of  the 
city  after  months  of  outing. 

We  passed  one  of  these  theatres  whose  stages 
are  near  the  street.  A  musical  farce  was  current 
there.  From  an  open  window  came  the  tune, 
waylaying  us  as  we  walked.  The  orchestra  was 
playing  it  fortissimo.  You  could  hear  it  above  the 
footfalls,  the  laughter,  and  the  conversation  of  the 
promenaders. 

204 


"LA    GITANA" 

Folsom  stopped.    "  Listen  to  that." 

"  Yes,  '  La  Gitana.'  It's  all  around.  It's  a 
catchy  thing,  and  suits  this  intoxicating  weather." 

"  It  goes  to  the  spot.  Let's  go  inside.  What's 
the  play?  " 

He  turned  at  once  toward  the  main  entrance  of 
the  theatre. 

"  A  farce  called  '  Three  Cheers  and  a  Tiger,'  — 
a  Hoyt  sort  of  a  piece.  The  little  Tyrrell  is  doing 
her  tambourine  dance  to  the  music." 

"  Never  heard  of  the  lady,"  he  said  to  me. 
And  then  to  the  youth  on  the  other  side  of  the  box- 
office  window,  "  Have  you  any  seats  left  in  the 
front  row?  " 

Folsom  always  asked  for  seats  in  the  front  row. 
This  time  it  was  fatal.  As  we  walked  up  the  aisle, 
Folsom  ahead,  the  little  Tyrrell  shot  one  casual 
glance  of  her  gray  eyes  at  him,  as  almost  any 
dancer  would  have  done  at  a  front  row  newcomer 
entering  while  she  was  on  the  stage.  In  the  next 
instant  her  eyes  were  following  her  toe  in  its  swift 
flight  upward  to  the  centre  of  the  tambourine  that 
her  hand  brought  downward  to  meet  it.  But  the 
one  glance  across  the  footlights  had  been  produc- 
tive. Folsom  sat  staring  over  the  heads  of  the 
musicians,  his  gaze  fastened  upon  the  little  Tyrrell, 
who  was  leaping  about  on  the  stage  to  the  tune  of 

205 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  La  Gitana."  His  lips  opened  slightly  and  re- 
mained so.  His  eyes  feasted  upon  the  flying 
dancer  in  the  rippling  blond  wig,  his  ears  drank  in 
the  buoyant  notes. 

It  is  well  known  that  power  lies  in  a  saltatorial 
ensemble  of  white  lace  skirts,  pale  blue  hose,  lus- 
trous naked  arms,  undulating  bodice,  magnetic 
eyes,  flying  hair,  and  an  unchanging  smile,  to 
focus  the  perceptions  of  a  man,  to  absorb  his  con- 
sciousness, aided  by  a  tune  which  seems  to  close 
out  from  him  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 

And  there,  while  this  plump  little  girl  danced 
and  the  frivolous,  stupid  crowd  looked  eagerly  on, 
from  all  parts  of  the  overheated  theatre,  began 
the  tragedy  of  Billy  Folsom. 

He  gazed  in  rapture,  and  when  she  had  finished 
and  stood  panting  and  kissing  her  hands  in  re- 
sponse to  applause,  he  heaved  an  eloquent  sigh. 

"  I'd  like  to  meet  that  girl,"  he  whispered  to  me, 
assuming  a  tone  of  carelessness. 

Thereafter  he  kept  his  eye  fixed  upon  the  wings 
until  she  reappeared.  And  the  rest  of  the  per- 
formance interested  him  only  when  she  was  in 
view. 

I  knew  the  symptoms,  but  I  did  not  think  the 
malady  would  become  chronic. 

He  managed  to  have  himself  introduced  to  her 
206 


"LA   GITANA" 

a  week  later  in  New  York  by  Ted  Clarke,  the 
artist,  who  made  newspaper  sketches  of  her  in 
some  of  her  dances.  Folsom  saw  her  going  up  the 
steps  to  an  elevated  railway  station.  He  ran  after 
her,  in  order  to  be  near  her.  He  followed  her  into 
a  car,  where  Ted  Clarke,  recognizing  her,  rose  to 
give  her  his  seat.  She  rewarded  the  artist  by 
opening  a  conversation  with  him,  and  Folsom 
availed  himself  of  his  acquaintance  with  Clarke  to 
salute  the  latter  with  surprising  cordiality.  She 
looked  a  few  years  older  and  less  girlish  without 
her  blond  wig  but  she  was  still  quite  pretty  in 
brown  hair.  She  treated  Folsom  with  her  wonted 
offhand  amiability.  He  left  the  train  when  she 
left  it,  and  he  walked  a  block  with  her.  With 
pardonable  shrewdness  she  inspected  his  visage, 
attire,  and  manner,  for  indications  of  his  pecuniary 
and  social  standing,  while  he  was  indulging  in 
silly  commonplaces.  When  they  parted  at  the 
quiet  hotel  where  she  lived  she  said  lightly : 

"  Come  and  see  me  sometime." 

To  her  surprise,  perhaps,  he  came  the  next  day, 
preceded  by  several  dozen  roses  and  a  few  pounds 
of  bonbons. 

Every  night  thereafter  he  was  at  the  theatre 
where  she  was  appearing,  watching  her  dance 
from  the  front  row  or  from  the  lobby,  agitated 

207 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

with  mingled  pleasure  and  jealousy  when  she  re- 
ceived loud  applause,  angry  at  the  audience  when 
the  plaudits  were  not  enthusiastic.  When  their 
acquaintance  was  two  weeks  old,  she  allowed  him 
to  wait  for  her  at  the  stage  door,  and  at  last  he  was 
permitted  to  take  her  to  supper. 

There  was  a  second  supper,  at  which  four  com- 
posed the  party.  We  had  a  room  to  ourselves, 
with  a  piano  in  the  corner.  The  event  lasted  long, 
and  near  the  end,  while  the  other  soubrette  played 
the  tune  on  the  piano,  and  Folsom  kept  time  by 
clinking  the  champagne  glass  against  the  bottle, 
the  little  Tyrrell,  continually  laughing,  did  her 
skirt  dance,  "  La  Gitana." 

Thus  with  that  waltz  tune  ever  sounding  in  his 
ears,  he  fell  in  love  with  her;  strangely  enough, 
really  in  love.  She,  having  her  own  affairs  to 
mind,  gave  him  no  thought  when  he  was  not  with 
her,  and  when  they  were  together  she  deemed  him 
quite  a  good-natured,  bearable  fellow,  as  long  as 
he  did  not  bore  her. 

He  made  several  declarations  of  love  to  her.  She 
smiled  at  them,  and  said,  "  You're  like  the  rest; 
you'll  get  over  it.  Meanwhile,  don't  look  like  that; 
be  cheerful."  At  certain  times,  when  circum- 
stances were  auspicious,  when  there  was  night 
and  electric  light  and  a  starry  sky  with  a  moon  in 

208 


"LA   GITANA" 

it,  she  was  half -sentimental,  but  such  moods  were 
only  superficial  and  short-lived,  and  she  invariably 
brought  an  end  to  them  with  flippant  laughter  or 
some  matter-of-fact  speech  that  came  with  a 
shock  to  Billy,  although  it  did  not  cool  his  adora- 
tion. 

Billy  became  quite  gloomy.  He  was  the  veri- 
table sighing  lover.  Although  for  a  month  he  was 
admittedly  the  chief  of  her  admirers  and  saw  her 
every  day,  he  seemed  to  make  no  progress  toward 
securing  a  hospitable  reception  for  and  a  response 
to  his  love. 

One  day,  as  they  were  walking  together  on 
Broadway,  she  said: 

"  You're  always  v  in  the  dumps  nowadays. 
Really  you  must  not  be  that  way.  Doleful  people 
make  me  tired." 

And  thereafter  Billy,  possessed  by  a  horrible 
fear  that  his  mournful  demeanour  might  cause  his 
banishment  from  her,  kept  making  desperate 
efforts  to  be  lively,  which  were  a  dismal  failure. 
It  was  ludicrous.  The  gayer  he  affected  to  be, 
the  more  emphatic  was  his  manifest  depression. 
So  she  wearied  of  his  company.  One  day  he  called 
at  her  hotel,  and,  as  was  his  custom,  went  immedi- 
ately to  her  sitting-room  without  sending  in  his 
card.  Before  he  knocked  at  the  door,  he  heard 

209 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

the  notes  of  her  piano ;  some  one  was  playing  the 
air  of  "La  Gitana  "  with  one  finger.  After  two 
or  three  bars,  the  instrument  was  silent.  Then  a 
man's  voice  was  heard.  Billy  knocked  angrily. 
Miss  Tyrrell  opened  the  door,  looked  annoyed 
when  she  saw  him,  and  introduced  him  to  the 
tenor  of  a  comic  opera  company  of  which  she 
recently  had  been  engaged  as  leading  soubrette. 
Billy's  call  was  a  short  one. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  he  sent  this  note 
to  her  from  the  caf 6  where  he  was  dining : 

"  Will  be  at  stage  door  with  carriage  at  eleven, 
as  before." 

He  was  there  at  eleven.  So  was  the  tenor. 
The  little  Tyrrell  came  out  and  looked  from  one  to 
the  other.  Billy  pointed  to  his  waiting  carriage. 
The  dancer  took  the  tenor's  arm  and  said : 

"  I'm  sorry  I  can't  accept  your  invitation,  Mr. 
Folsom.  Really  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you, 
but  I  have  an  engagement." 

She  went  off  with  the  tenor,  and  Billy  went  off 
with  the  cab  and  made  himself  drunker  than  he 
had  ever  been  in  his  life.  At  dawn  his  feet  were 
seen  protruding  from  the  window  of  a  coupe"  that 
was  being  driven  up  Broadway,  and  he  was  bawl- 
ing forth,  as  best  he  could,  the  tune  which  had 


210 


"LA   GITANA" 

served  indirectly  to  bring  the  little  Tyrrell  into 
his  life. 

After  that  night,  it  was  the  old  story,  a  woman 
ridding  herself  of  a  man  for  whom  she  had  never 
cared,  and  who  indeed  was  not  worth  caring  for. 
But  the  operation  was  just  as  hard  upon  Folsom 
as  if  he  had  been.  You  know  the  stages  of  the 
process.  She  began  by  being  not  at  home  or  just 
about  to  go  out.  He  wrote  pleading  notes  to  her, 
in  boyish  phraseology,  and  she  laughed  over  these 
with  the  tenor.  He  made  the  breaking  off  the 
more  painful  by  going  nightly  to  see  her  dance  that 
fatal  melody.  He  watched  her  from  afar  upon 
the  street,  and  almost  invariably  saw  the  tenor  by 
her  side.  He  drank  continually,  and  he  begged 
Ted  Clarke  to  tell  her,  in  a  casual  way,  that  he  was 
going  to  the  dogs  on  account  of  her  treatment  of 
him.  Whereupon  she  laughed  and  then  looked 
scornful,  saying:  "  If  he's  fool  enough  to  drink 
himself  to  death  because  a  woman  didn't  happen 
to  fall  in  love  with  him,  the  sooner  he  finishes  the 
work  the  better.  I  have  no  use  for  such  a  man." 

No  one  has,  and  I  told  Billy  so.  Btit  he  kept  up 
his  pace  toward  the  goal  of  confirmed  drunken- 
ness. He  ceased  his  attendance  at  the  theatre 
where  she  danced,  only  after  he  learned  that 
the  tenor  had  married  her.  But  that  dance  of 

211 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

hers  had  become  a  part  of  his  life.  Its  accompany- 
ing tune  was  now  as  necessary  to  his  aural  sensibili- 
ties as  food  to  his  stomach.  He  therefore  spent 
his  evenings  going  to  theatres  and  concert-halls 
where  "  La  Gitana  "  was  likely  to  be  sung  or 
played.  He  rarely  sought  in  vain.  The  melody 
was  to  be  found  serving  some  purpose  or  other  at 
almost  every  theatre  that  winter.  It  was  the 
"  Ta-ra-ra  Boom-de-ay  "  of  its  time. 

Some  men  who  drink  themselves  to  death 
require  years  and  wit  to  complete  the  task.  Others 
save  time  by  catching  pneumonia  through  ex- 
posure due  to  drink.  Billy  Folsom  was  one  of  the 
pneumonia  class.  He  "  slept  off  "  the  effects  of  a 
long  lark  in  an  area-way  belonging  to  a  total 
stranger.  A  policeman  took  him  to  his  lodgings 
by  way  of  the  station  house,  and  a  day  later  his 
landlord  sent  for  a  doctor.  Five  days  after  that 
I  went  over  to  see  him.  He  was  in  bed,  and  one 
of  his  friends,  a  man  of  his  own  kind,  but  of 
stronger  fibre,  was  keeping  him  company.  Billy 
told  us  how  it  had  come  about : 

"  I  wouldn't  have  gone  on  that  racket  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  one  thing.  I'd  made  up  my  mind 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  I  was  walking  along 
full  of  plans  for  reformation.  Suddenly  I  heard 
the  sound  of  a  banjo,  coming  from  an  up-stairs 

212 


"LA    GITANA" 

window,  playing  a  certain  tune  I've  got  somewhat 
attached  to.  I  saw  the  place  was  a  kind  of  a  dive 
and  I  went  in.  I  got  the  banjo-player  to  strum 
the  piece  over  again,  and  I  bought  drinks  for  the 
crowd.  Then  I  made  him  play  once  more,  and 
there  were  other  rounds  of  drinks,  and  the  last  I 
remember  is  that  I  was  waltzing  around  the  place 
to  that  air.  Two  days  after  that  the  officer  found 
me  trespassing  on  some  one's  property  by  sleeping 
on  it.  I  dropped  my  overcoat  and  hat  somewhere, 
and  it  seemed  there  must  have  been  a  draft  around, 
for  I  caught  this  cold." 

I  told  Folsom  to  stop  talking,  as  he  was  mani- 
festly much  weaker  than  he  or  his  friend  supposed 
him  to  be.  There  ensued  a  few  seconds  of  silence. 
A  loud  noise  broke  upon  the  stillness  with  a  shock- 
ing suddenness.  It  was  the  clamour  of  a  band- 
piano  in  the  street  beneath  Folsom's  window,  and 
of  all  the  tunes  in  the  world  the  tune  that  it 
shrieked  out  was  "  La  Gitana."  I  looked  at 
Folsom. 

He  rose  in  his  bed  and,  clenching  his  teeth,  he 
propelled  through  their  interstices  the  word : 

"Damn!" 

He  remained  sitting  for  a  time,  his  hair  tumbled 
about,  his  eyes  wide  open  but  expressive  of  medi- 
tation as  the  notes  continued  to  be  thumped  up- 

213 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

ward  by  the  turbulent  instrument.  Presently  he 
said,  in  a  husky  voice : 

"  How  that  thing  pursues  me !  It's  like  a  fiend. 
It  has  no  let-up.  It  follows  me  even  into  the  next 
world." 

He  sat  for  a  moment  more,  intently  listening. 
Then,  with  a  quick,  peevish  sigh,  he  fell  back  from 
weakness.  We  by  his  side  did  not  know  it  at  the 
instant,  but  we  discovered  in  a  short  time  what 
had  taken  place  when  his  head  had  touched  the 
pillow,  for  he  remained  so  still. 

And  that  was  the  last  of  Bilty  Folsom,  and  up 
from  the  murmuring  street  below  came  the  notes 
of  the  band-piano  playing  "  La  Gitana." 


214 


TRANSITION 


XVIII 

TRANSITION 

THREE  of  us  sat  upon  an  upper  deck,  sailing  to 
an  island.  The  day  was  sunlit,  the  wind  was 
gentle,  and  the  faintest  ripple  passed  over  the  sea. 

"  Do  you  see  the  tremulous  old  man  sitting  over 
there  by  the  pilot-house  absorbing  the  sunshine? 
He  reminds  me  of  another  old  man,  one  whom  I 
watched  for  six  years,  while  he  faded  and  died. 
He  never  knew  me,  but  he  walked  by  my  house 
daily  and  I  walked  by  his.  It  was  an  interesting 
study.  The  conclusion  of  the  process  was  so  in- 
evitable. The  time  came  when  he  did  not  pass  my 
house.  Then  he  took  the  sunlight  in  a  bow-window 
on  the  second  floor  of  his  residence.  So  closely  had 
I  watched  his  decadence  during  the  six  years  that 
I  was  able  to  say  to  myself  one  morning,  '  There 
will  be  crape  on  his  door  before  the  day  is  out.' 
And  so  there  was." 

The  bon-vivant  laughed  rather  mechanically, 
but  the  other,  he  who  makes  verses  so  dainty  that 

217 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

the  world  does  not  heed  them,  smiled  softly  and 
sympathetically  to  me  and  said : 

"  You  are  right.  Nothing  is  so  fascinating  as  the 
study  of  a  progress  —  a  development  or  a  decline. 
The  inevitability  of  the  end  makes  it  more  en- 
grossing, for  it  relieves  it  of  the  undue  eagerness 
of  curiosity,  the  feverishness  of  uncertainty." 

"  Well,  I  am  content  rather  to  live  than  to  con- 
template life,"  said  the  bon-vivant.  "  It's  true  I 
have  given  myself  up  to  observing  anxiously  such 
an  advancement  as  you  describe  —  a  vulgar  one 
you  will  say.  When  I  was  a  very  young  man  I 
was  a  very  thin  man.  I  determined  to  amplify 
my  dimensions.  I  followed  with  careful  interest 
my  daily  increase  toward  my  present  —  let  us  not 
say  obesity,  but  call  it  portliness." 

"  You  are  inclined  to  be  easy  upon  yourself,"  I 
commented. 

"  Indeed  I  am  —  in  all  matters." 

After  a  pause  the  verse-maker,  throwing  away 
his  cigarette,  took  up  again  the  theme  that  I  had 
introduced. 

"  Yes,  it  is  an  engaging  occupation  to  note  any 
progression,  even  when  it  is  toward  a  fatal  or  a 
horrible  culmination.  But  when  it  is  to  some 
beautiful  and  happy  outcome,  this  advancement 
is  an  ineffably  charming  spectacle.  Such  it  is 

218 


TRANSITION 

when  it  is  the  unfolding  of  a  flower  or  the  filling 
out  of  a  poetic  thought. 

"  But  no  growth  nor  transformation  in  the 
material  world  is  more  entrancing  to  observe  than 
that  by  which  a  young  girl  becomes  a  lovely 
woman. 

"  This  transition  seems  to  be  sudden.  It  is  not 
so.  It  is  rapid,  perhaps,  as  life  goes,  but  each 
stage  is  distinctly  marked.  All  men  have  not  time 
to  watch  the  change,  however,  and  so  most  men 
awaken  to  its  occurrence  only  when  it  is  com- 
pleted. Such  was  the  case  of  the  young  and  low- 
born lover  of  Consuelo  in  George  Sand's  romance. 
Do  you  remember  that  incomparable  scene  in 
which  he  suddenly  begins  to  notice  that  some 
feature  of  Consuelo  is  handsome,  and,  with  sur- 
prise, calls  her  attention  to  its  comeliness?  She, 
equally  astonished  and  delighted,  joins  him  in  the 
visual  examination  of  her  charms,  and  the  two 
pass  from  one  attraction  to  the  other,  finally  com- 
pleting the  discovery  that  she  is  a  beautiful 
woman. 

"  The  Italian  gamin  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to 
have  anticipated  this  transfiguration  and  to  have 
watched  its  stages. 

"  You  may  argue  that  his  delight  at  suddenly 
opening  his  eyes  to  the  finished  work  was  greater 

219 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

than  would  have  been  his  pleasure  at  contemplat- 
ing the  alteration  in  process.  Doubtless  his  was. 
As  to  whether  yours  would  be  in  such  a  case,  de- 
pends upon  your  temperament. 

"  I  have  experienced  both  of  these  pleasures. 
Perhaps  it  may  be  due  to  certain  special  circum- 
stances that  I  cherish  the  memory  of  the  more 
lasting  delight,  even  though  it  was  tempered  by 
occasional  doubts  as  to  the  end,  more  tenderly 
than  I  do  the  more  sudden  and  keen  awakening. 

"  There  is  a  woman  who  first  came  under  my 
observations  when  she  was  thirteen  years  old. 
She  was  then  agreeable  enough  to  the  eye,  more 
by  reason  of  the  gentleness  of  her  expression 
than  for  any  noteworthy  attractions  of  face  and 
figure.  Her  face,  indeed,  was  plain  and  uninter- 
esting; her  figure  unformed  and  too  slim.  Her 
hair,  however,  was  charming,  being  soft  and 
extremely  light  in  colour.  She  seemed  awkward, 
too,  and  timid,  through  fear  of  offending  or  making 
a  bad  impression. 

"  For  a  reason  I  was  particularly  interested  in 
her.  I  knew,  young  as  I  then  was,  that  plain  girls, 
in  many  cases,  develop  into  handsome  women. 

"  At  fourteen  her  hair  showed  indications  of 
changing  its  tint.  Its  tendency  was  unmistakably 
toward  brown.  This  was  temporarily  unfavour- 

220 


TRANSITION 

able,  but  a  brightening  of  the  blue  eyes  and  a 
newly  acquired  poise  of  the  head,  with  a  step 
toward  self-confidence  in  manner,  were  com- 
pensating alterations. 

"  At  fifteen  there  came  an  emancipation  of  mind 
and  speech  from  schoolgirl  habits.  A  defensive 
assumption  of  impertinent  reserve,  varied  by 
fits  of  superficial  garrulity,  gave  way  to  real 
thoughtfulness,  to  natural  amiability.  Then 
came,  too,  an  emboldenment  of  the  facial  outline,  a 
constancy  to  the  colour  of  the  cheeks,  a  certainty 
of  gait,  and  the  first  perceptible  roundness  of 
contour  beneath  the  neck. 

"  At  sixteen  she  had  adorable  hands,  and  she 
could  wear  short  sleeves  with  impunity.  A 
rational,  unforced,  and  coherent  vivacity  had  now 
revealed  itself  as  a  characteristic  of  her  mode  and 
conversation.  Her  ankles  had  long  before  that 
grown  too  sightly  to  be  exhibited.  Such  is  so- 
called  civilization!  Her  hair  seemed  to  darken 
before  one's  eyes.  The  oval  of  her  face  attracted 
the  attention  of  more  than  one  of  my  artist  friends. 

"  At  seventeen  she  had  learned  what  styles  of 
attire,  what  arrangements  of  her  hair,  were  best 
suited  to  display  effectively  her  comeliness. 

"  This  was  one  of  the  greatest  steps  of  all. 

"  The  simplest  draperies,  she  found,  the  least 
221 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

complicated  headgear,  were  most  advantageous 
to  her  appearance. 

"  A  taste  for  reading  the  most  ideal  and  artistic 
of  books,  as  well  as  her  liking  for ,  poetry,  the 
theatre,  music,  and  pictures  had  implanted  that 
exalted  something  in  her  face  which  cannot  be 
otherwise  acquired. 

"  When  she  was  eighteen  people  on  the  street 
turned  to  look  at  her  as  she  passed. 

"  At  nineteen  her  figure  was  unsurpassable. 
Indeed,  I  think  there  cannot  be  a  more  beautiful 
and  charming  woman  in  America.  She  is  now 
twenty. 

"  It  was  my  privilege  to  view  closely  the  burst- 
ing of  this  bud  into  bloom." 

The  fin  de  si  dele  versewright  became  silent  and 
lighted  a  fresh  cigarette. 

"  Will  you  permit  me  to  ask,"  said  I,  "  what 
were  the  especial  facilities  that  you  had  for  ob- 
serving this  evolution?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  softly,  a  tender  look 
coming  into  his  eyes.  "  She  is  my  wife.  She  was 
thirteen  when  I  married  her.  Suddenly  placed 
without  means  of  subsistence,  knowing  nothing 
of  the  world,  she  came  to  me.  I  could  see  no  other 
way.  We  are  very  happy  together." 

The  pretty  narrative  of  the  rhymer  put  each 
222 


TRANSITION 

of  us  in  a  delectable  mood.  The  notes  of  a  harp 
and  violins  came  from  the  lower  deck  in  the  form 
of  a  seductive  Italian  melody.  White  sails  dotted 
the  far-reaching  sea. 


223 


A  MAN  WHO  WAS  NO  GOOD 


XIX 

A   MAN   WHO   WAS   NO    GOOD 

HEARKEN  to  the  tale  of  how  fortune  fell  to  the 
widow  of  Busted  Blake. 

The  outcome  has  shown  that  "  Busted  "  was 
not  radically  bad.  But  he  was  wretchedly  weak 
of  will  to  reject  an  opportunity  of  having  another 
drink  with  the  boys  —  or  with  the  girls  —  or 
with  anybody  or  with  nobody. 

In  the  days  of  his  ascendency,  when  he  was  a 
young  and  newly  married  architect,  he  was  a 
buyer  of  drinks  for  others.  Waiters  in  cafes  vied 
with  each  other  in  showing  readiness  to  take  his 
orders.  He  was  rated  a  jolly  good  fellow  then. 
No  one  would  have  supposed  it  destined  that  some 
fine  night  a  leering  barroom  wit  should  reply  to 
his  whispered  application  for  a  small  loan  by 
pouring  a  half -glass  of  whiskey  upon  his  head  and 
saying : 

"  I  hereby  christen  thee  '  Busted.'  " 

The  title  stuck.  Blake,  through  continued 
227 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

impecuniosity,  lost  all  shame  of  it  in  time;  lost, 
too,  his  self-respect  and  his  wife.  Mrs.  Blake, 
a  gentle  and  pretty  little  brunette,  had  wedded 
him  against  the  will  of  her  parents.  She  had 
trusted,  for  his  safety,  to  the  allurements  of  his 
future,  which  everybody  said  was  bright,  and 
to  his  love  for  her. 

The  years  of  tearful  nights,  the  pleadings,  the 
reproaches,  the  seesaw  of  hope  and  despair,  need 
not  here  be  dwelt  upon.  They  would  make  an 
old  story,  and  some  of  the  details  might  be  shock- 
ing to  the  young  person.  They  reached  a  cul- 
mination one  day  when  she  said  to  him : 

"  You  love  drink  better  than  you  love  me.  I 
have  done  with  you." 

She  was  a  woman  and  took  a  woman's  view  of 
the  case. 

When  he  came  back  to  their  rooms  that  night, 
she  was  not  there.  Then  he  knew  how  much 
he  loved  her  and  how  much  he  had  underesti- 
mated his  love. 

She  did  not  go  to  her  parents.  There  was  a 
very  musty  proverb  that  she  knew  would  meet  her 
on  the  threshold.  '  You  made  your  bed,  now 
lie  on  it."  Her  father  was  a  man  of  no  originality, 
hence  he  would  have  put  it  in  that  way. 

She  got  employment  in  a  photograph  gallery, 
228 


A   MAN   WHO   WAS   NO   GOOD 

where  she  made  herself  useful  by  being  orna- 
mental, sitting  behind  a  desk  in  the  ante- 
room. 

I  know  not  what  duties  devolve  upon  the  woman 
who  occupies  that  post  in  the  average  photogra- 
pher's service;  whatever  they  are  she  performed 
them.  But  within  a  very  short  time  after  she 
had  left  the  "  bed  and  board  "  of  Busted  Blake, 
she  had  to  ask  for  a  vacation.  She  spent  it  in  a 
hospital  and  Busted  became  a  father.  She  re- 
sumed her  chair  behind  the  photographer's  desk 
in  due  time,  found  a  boarding-house  where  infants 
were  not  tabooed,  and  managed  to  subsist,  and 
to  care  for  her  child  —  a  girl. 

Somebody  lived  in  that  boarding-house  who 
knew  Busted  Blake,  and  it  was  through  inquiries 
resulting  from  this  somebody's  jocularly  calling 
him  "  papa  "  one  night  in  a  saloon  that  Busted 
was  made  aware  of  his  accession  to  the  paternal 
relation. 

When  the  poor  wretch  heard  the  news,  he  made 
a  prodigious  effort  to  keep  his  face  composed. 
But  the  muscles  would  not  be  resisted.  He  burst 
out  crying,  and  he  laid  his  head  upon  his  arm 
upon  a  beer-flooded  table  and  wept  copiously, 
causing  a  sudden  hush  to  fall  upon  the  crowd  of 
topers  and  a  group  to  gather  around  his  table  and 

229 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

stare  at  him,  —  some  mystified,  some  grinning, 
none  understanding. 

The  next  day  he  made  a  herculean  effort  to  pull 
himself  together.  He  obtained  a  position  as 
draughtsman  from  one  who  had  known  him  in  his 
respectable  period,  and  he  went  tremblingly 
and  sheepishly  to  call  upon  his  wife  and  child. 

The  consequence  of  his  visit  was  a  reunion, 
which  endured  for  two  whole  weeks.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  she  cast  him  off  in  utter  scorn. 

How  he  lived  for  the  next  two  years  can  be  only 
known  to  those  who  are  familiar  through  experi- 
ence with  the  existence  of  people  who  ask  other 
people  on  the  street  for  a  few  cents  toward  a 
night's  lodging.  By  those  who  knew  him  he  was 
said  to  be  "  no  good  to  himself  or  any  one  else." 
He  acquired  the  raggedness,  the  impudence,  the 
phraseology  of  the  vagabond  class.  He  would 
hang  on  the  edge  of  a  party  of  men  drinking  to- 
gether in  front  of  a  bar,  on  the  slim  chance  of 
being  "  counted  in "  when  the  question  went 
round,  "  What '11  you  have?  "  He  was  perpetually 
being  impelled  out  of  saloons  at  foot-race  speed 
by  the  officials  whose  function  it  is,  in  barrooms, 
to  substitute  an  objectionable  person's  room 
for  his  company. 

One  winter  Sunday  morning  he  slept  late  on  a 
230 


A   MAN   WHO   WAS   NO    GOOD 

bench  in  a  public  square.  Awakened  by  an  officer, 
he  arose  to  go.  Hazy  in  head  and  stiff  at  joints, 
he  slightly  staggered.  He  heard  behind  him  the 
cooing  laugh  of  a  child.  He  looked  around.  It 
was  himself  that  had  awakened  the  infant's 
mirth  —  or  that  strange  something  which  precedes 
the  dawn  of  a  sense  of  humour  in  children.  The 
smiling  babe  was  in  a  child's  carriage  which  a 
plainly  dressed  woman  was  pushing.  He  looked 
at  the  woman.  It  was  his  wife  and  the  pretty 
child  was  his  own. 

He  walked  rapidly  from  the  place,  and  on  the 
same  day  he  decided  to  leave  the  city.  He  had 
herded  with  vagrants  of  the  touring  class.  The 
methods  of  free  transportation  by  means  of  freight- 
trains  and  free  living,  by  means  of  beggary  and 
small  thievery  in  country  towns,  were  no  secret 
to  him.  He  walked  to  the  suburbs,  and  at  night- 
fall he  scrambled  up  the  side  of  a  coal-car  in  a 
train  slowly  moving  westward. 

What  hunger  he  suffered,  what  cold  he  endured, 
what  bread  he  begged,  what  police  station  cells  he 
passed  nights  in,  what  human  scum  he  associated 
with,  what  thirst  he  quenched,  and  with  what  in- 
credibly bad  whiskey,  are  particulars  not  for  this 
unobjectionable  narrative,  for  do  they  not  belong 
to  low  life?  And  who  nowadays  can  tolerate  low 

231 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

life  in  print  unless  it  be  redeemed  by  a  rustic  en- 
vironment and  a  laboured  exposition  of  clodhopper 
English  and  primitive  expletives?  Low  life 
outside  of  a  dialect  story  and  a  dreary  village? 
Never! 

Mrs.  Blake  and  the  child  lived  in  a  fair  degree 
of  comfort  upon  the  mother's  wages,  but  often 
the  mother  shuddered  at  thought  of  what  might 
happen  should  she  ever  lose  her  position  at  the 
photographer's. 

Consumption  had  its  hold  on  Busted  Blake  when 
he  arrived  in  the  mining-town  called  Get-there 
City,  in  Kansas,  one  evening.  Get-there  City 
had  not  gotten  there  beyond  a  single  straggling 
street  of  shanties.  But  it  had  acquired  a  saloon, 
although  liquor-selling  had  already  been  forbidden 
in  Kansas. 

Busted  Blake,  with  ten  cents  in  his  clothes, 
entered  the  saloon  and  asked  in  an  asthmatic 
voice  for  as  much  whiskey  as  that  sum  was  good 
for. 

While  awaiting  a  response,  his  eyes  turned 
toward  the  only  other  persons  in  the  saloon,  — 
three  burly,  bearded  miners  of  the  conventional 
big -hatted,  big -booted,  and  big -voiced  type. 
Above  their  heads  and  against  the  wall  was  this 


232 


A   MAN   WHO   WAS   NO    GOOD 

sign,    lettered   roughly   with   charcoal,    under   a 
crudely  drawn  death's  head: 

"  Five  thousand  dollars  will  be  paid  by  the 
undersigned  to  the  widow  of  the  sneaking  hound 
that  informs  on  this  saloon.  This  is  no  meer 
bluf.  P.  GIBBS." 

Blake,  after  a  brief  coughing  fit,  looked  up  at 
the  man  behind  the  bar,  —  a  great  thick-necked 
fellow  with  a  mien  of  authority,  and  yet  with 
a  certain  bluff  honesty  expressed  about  his  eyes 
and  lips.  This  man,  whose  air  of  proprietorship 
convinced  Blake  that  he  could  be  none  other  than 
P.  Gibbs,  had  first  looked  sneeringly  at  the  ten 
cents,  but  had  shown  some  small  sign  of  pity  on 
hearing  the  ominous  cough  of  the  attenuated 
vagrant.  He  set  forth  a  bottle  and  glass. 

"  Help  yerself,"  said  P.  Gibbs.  While  Blake 
was  doing  so,  Mr.  Gibbs  went  on : 

"  Bad  cough  o'  yourn.  Y'  mightn't  guess  it, 
but  that  same  cough  runs  in  my  fam'ly.  It  took 
off  a  brother,  but  it  skipped  me." 

Here  was  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  the  big, 
law-defying  saloon-keeper  and  the  frail  toper 
from  the  East.  Busted  Blake  drained  his  glass 
and  presently  coughed  again.  P.  Gibbs  again 

233 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

set  forth  the  bottle,  and  this  time  he  drank  with 
Blake.  Before  long,  by  dint  of  repeated  fits  of 
coughing  on  the  part  of  Blake,  the  sympathy  of 
P.  Gibbs  was  so  worked  upon  that  he  invited  the 
three  miners  in  the  saloon  to  join  him  and  the 
stranger. 

Blake  slept  in  a  corner  of  the  saloon  that  night. 
He  left  the  next  morning,  a  curious  expression 
of  resolution  on  his  face. 

During  the  next  three  weeks  he  was  now  and 
then  alluded  to  in  P.  Gibbs's  saloon  as  the  "  cough- 
ing stranger." 

In  the  middle  of  the  third  week,  at  nine  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  when  the  lamps  in  P.  Gibbs's 
saloon  were  exerting  their  smallest  degree  of 
dimness  and  the  bar  was  doing  a  good  business, 
the  door  opened  and  in  staggered  Busted  Blake. 
His  staggering  on  this  occasion  was  manifestly 
not  due  to  drink.  His  face  had  the  hideous 
concavities  of  a  starved  man  and  the  uncertainty 
of  his  gait  was  the  token  of  a  mortal  feebleness. 
His  emaciation  was  painful  to  behold.  His  eyes 
glowed  like  huge  gems. 

The  crowd  of  miners  looked  at  him  with  sur- 
prise as  he  entered. 

"  The  coughing  stranger!  "  cried  one. 

"  The  coffin  stranger,  you  mean,"  said  another. 
234 


Busted  Blake  lurched  over  to  the  bar.  His 
eyes  met  those  of  P.  Gibbs  on  the  other  side,  and 
the  latter  reached  for  a  whiskey-bottle. 

Blake  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  brought  forth 
a  piece  of  soiled  paper,  which  he  laid  on  the  bar 
under  the  glance  of  P.  Gibbs. 

"Keep  that!"  said  Blake,  in  a  husky  voice, 
whose  service  he  compelled  with  much  effort. 
"  And  keep  your  word,  too!  That's  where  you'll 
find  her." 

P.  Gibbs  picked  up  the  paper. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  woman's  name  there.  It's  the  name 
of  my  widow;  the  address,  too,  of  a  photograph 
man  who  will  tell  you  where  she  is.  Get  the  money 
to  her  quick,  before  the  governor  and  the  troops 
conies  down  on  you  to  close  you  up.  And  don't 
let  her  know  how  it  comes  about.  Pick  a  man  to 
take  it  to  her,  —  let  him  pay  his  expenses  out  of 
it,  —  a  man  you  can  trust,  and  make  him  tell  her 
I  made  it  somehow,  mining  or  something,  so  she'll 
take  it.  You  know." 

P.  Gibbs,  who  had  listened  with  increasing 
amazement,  opened  wide  his  eyes  and  drew  his 
revolver.  He  spoke  in  a  strangely  low,  repressed 
voice : 

"  Stranger,  do  you  mean  to  say  —  " 
235 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  Yes,  that's  it,"  shrieked  Busted  Blake, 
turning  toward  the  crowd  of  intensely  interested 
onlookers.  "  And  I  call  on  all  you  here  to  witness 
and  to  hold  him  to  his  word.  That's  no  mere  bluff 
he  says  in  his  notice  there,  and  I'm  the  sneaking 
hound  that  informed.  My  widow  is  entitled  to 
$5,000.  I  did  it  in  Topeka,  and  for  proof,  see  this 
newspaper." 

P.  Gibbs  fired  a  shot  from  his  revolver  through 
the  newspaper  that  Blake  pulled  from  his  shirt. 
Then  the  saloon-keeper  brought  his  weapon  on  a 
level  with  Blake's  face. 

"  It's  good  your  boots  is  on!  "  said  P.  Gibbs, 
ironically. 

But  he  did  not  fire.  Blake  stood  perfectly 
still,  awaiting  the  shot,  and  feebly  laughing. 

So  the  two  remained  for  some  moments,  until 
Blake  suddenly  sank  to  the  floor,  quite  exhausted. 
He  died  within  a  half-hour  on  the  saloon  floor, 
his  head  resting  in  the  palm  of  P.  Gibbs,  who 
knelt  by  his  side  and  tried  to  revive  him. 

At  the  next  dawn,  a  man  whom  they  called 
Big  Andy  started  East,  and  the  piece  of  paper  that 
Blake  handed  to  P.  Gibbs  was  not  all  that  he  took 
with  him.  The  United  States  marshal  arrived 
and  duly  closed  Gibbs 's  saloon,  which  reopened 
very  shortly  afterward,  minus  the  $5,000  offer. 

236 


BLAKE    STOOD    PERFECTLY    STILL. 


A   MAN   WHO   WAS  NO   GOOD 

And  Big  Andy  found  the  widow  of  Busted  Blake, 
to  whom  he  told  a  bit  of  fiction  in  accounting  for 
the  legacy  conveyed  by  him  to  her  that  would 
have  imposed  upon  the  most  incredulous  legatee. 
When  she  had  recovered  from  the  surprise  of 
finding  herself  and  her  child  provided  with  the 
means  of  surviving  the  possible  loss  of  her  situa- 
tion, she  forgave  the  late  Busted,  and  there  was 
a  flow  of  tears  unusual  to  a  boarding-house  parlour 
and  unnerving  to  Big  Andy. 

Presently  she  asked  Andy  whether  he  knew  what 
her  husband's  last  words  had  been. 

"  Yep,"  said  Andy.  "  I  heard'm  plain  and 
clear.  Pete  Gibbs,  —  the  other  executor  of  the 
will,  you  know,  —  Pete  says,  '  It's  all  right, 
pardner,  me  and  Andy '11  see  to  it,'  and  then  your 
husband  says,  '  Thank  Gawd  I've  been  some  good 
to  her  and  the  child  at  last.'  ' 

Which  account  was  entirely  correct.  When 
Big  Andy  had  returned  to  Get-there  City,  and 
related  how  he  had  performed  his  mission,  he 
added : 

"  I'd  been  such  a  lovely  liar  all  through,  it's 
a  shame  I  had  to  go  an'  spoil  the  story  by  puttin* 
in  some  truth  at  the  finish." 

They  put  up  a  wooden  grave-mark  where  Blake 


237 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

was  buried,  and  after  his  name  they  cut  in  the 
wood  this  testimonial: 

"  A  tenderfoot  that  was  some  good  to  his  folks 
at  last." 


238 


MR.  THORNBERRY'S  ELDORADO 


XX 

MR.  THORNBERRY'S  ELDORADO 

NEAR  the  uneven  road  among  the  hills  a  small 
field  of  stony  ground  lay  between  woods  and  culti- 
vated land.  Nothing  grew  upon  it  and  no  house 
could  be  seen  from  it.  The  sun  beat  upon  it  and 
crows  flew  over  it  to  and  from  the  woods. 

Along  the  road  trudged  a  thin  old  negro  with 
stooping  back  and  gray  wool.  His  knees  were  bent 
and  his  cumbrously  shod  feet  pointed  far  outward 
from  his  line  of  progress.  He  wore  an  aged  frock 
coat  and  a  battered  stiff  hat,  although  the  month 
was  June.  His  small  face,  beginning  with  a 
smoothly  curved  forehead  and  ending  with  a 
cleanly  cut  chin,  was  mild  and  conciliating,  shiny, 
and  of  the  colour  of  light  chocolate.  He  carried 
a  tin  bucket  full  of  cherries.  Pop  Thornberry  was 
returning  to  the  town. 

Pop,  whose  proper  name  was  Moses,  and  who 
was  a  deacon  in  the  African  Methodist  Church, 
made  his  living  this  way  and  that  way.  He  did 

241 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

odd  jobs  for  people,  and  he  fished  and  hunted 
when  fishing  and  hunting  were  in  season. 

On  this  June  day  he  had  risen  early  and  walked 
three  miles  to  pick  cherries  "  on  shares."  He 
had  picked  ten  quarts  and  left  four  of  them  with 
the  farmer  whose  trees  had  produced  them.  At 
six  cents  a  quart  he  would  profit  thirty-six  cents 
by  his  walk  of  six  miles  and  his  work  of  a  half -day. 

The  sun  was  scorching  and  Pop  was  tired. 
He  decided  to  rest  in  the  barren  field,  at  its  very 
edge  in  shade  of  the  woods.  He  climbed  the  zigzag 
fence  with  some  labour  and  at  the  expense  of  a 
few  of  his  cherries.  He  sat  down  upon  a  little 
knob  of  earth,  took  off  his  hat,  drew  a  red  hand- 
kerchief from  the  inside  thereof,  and  slowly  wiped 
his  perspiring  brow. 

He  looked  up  at  the  sky,  which  was  so  brightly 
blue  that  it  made  his  eyes  blink.  He  sought 
optical  relief  in  the  dark  green  of  the  woods. 
Then,  in  steadying  his  pail  of  cherries  between 
his  legs,  he  turned  his  glance  to  the  ground  in 
front  of  him. 

His  attention  was  caught  by  a  lump  of  earth 
that  sparkled  at  points  in  the  sun's  rays,  a  mere 
clod  composed  of  clay  and  mica,  lying  in  the  dry 
bed  of  a  bygone  streamlet.  Because  it  glittered 
he  picked  it  up  and  examined  it.  After  a  time  he 

242 


MR.   THORNBERRY'S   ELDORADO 

bethought  him  that  he  was  yet  two  and  a  half 
miles  from  town  and  very  hungry.  He  arose, 
somewhat  stiff,  and  put  the  shining  clod  in  his 
coat-tail  pocket.  On  his  way  back  to  the  road 
he  noticed  other  little  earth  lumps  that  shone. 
He  resumed  his  walk  townward,  his  knees  shaking 
regularly  at  every  step,  as  was  their  wont. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  he  had  reached 
home,  sold  his  cherries,  and  dined  on  dried  beef 
and  bread  in  his  little  unpainted  wooden  house 
on  the  edge  of  the  creek  at  the  back  of  the 
town. 

He  owned  his  house  and  a  small  lot  upon  which 
it  stood.  Near  it  was  a  flour-mill,  whose  owner 
held  a  mortgage  upon  Pop's  house  and  lot.  The 
old  negro  had  been  compelled  to  borrow  $200  to 
pay  bills  incurred  during  the  illness  and  subse- 
quent funeral  of  the  late  Mrs.  Thornberry,  and 
thus  to  avoid  a  sheriff's  sale.  Hence  came  the 
mortgage.  It  would  expire  on  the  loth  of  Sep- 
tember. Pop  was  almost  ready  to  meet  that  date. 
He  already  had  $192  hidden  in  his  cellar,  unknown 
to  any  one. 

He  had  heard  rumours  of  the  mill-owner's 
desire  to  build  an  addition  to  his  mill.  To  do  this 
would  necessitate  the  acquisition  of  contiguous 
property.  But  Pop  had  not  suspected  any 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

ulterior  motive  when  the  miller  had  offered  to 
lend  him  the  money. 

"  I  kin  soon  lay  by  'nuff  t'  pay  off  d'  mohgage, 
w'en  I  ain't  got  no  one  but  m'se'f  t'  puvvide  foh 
no  moah,"  he  had  said,  after  the  loan  had  been 
made. 

And,  having  dined  on  this  June  day,  he  took 
twenty  cents  from  the  amount  received  for  cherries 
and  placed  it  in  a  cigar-box  to  be  added  to  the 
$192.  He  kept  that  sixteen  cents  with  which 
to  purchase  provisions  for  to-morrow,  and  then  he 
walked  down  the  quiet  street  to  the  railway 
station.  He  often  made  a  dime  by  carrying  some 
one's  satchel  from  the  station  to  the  hotel. 

The  railroad  division  superintendent,  a  well- 
fed  and  easy-going  man,  came  down  from  his 
office  on  the  second  floor  of  the  station  building 
and  saw  Pop  sitting  on  a  baggage-truck.  The 
old  negro,  forgetful  of  the  clod  in  his  coat-tail 
pocket,  had  felt  it  when  he  sat  down.  He  had 
taken  it  out  of  his  pocket  and  was  now  casually 
looking  at  it  as  he  held  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Hello,  Pop!  "  said  the  division  superintendent, 
upon  whose  hand  time  was  hanging  heavily. 
"  What  have  you  there?  " 

"  Doan'  know,  Mistah  Monroe.  Doan'  know, 
sah.  Looks  like  jes'  a  chunk  o'  mud." 

244 


MR.    THORNBERRY'S   ELDORADO 

He  held  out  the  clod  to  Mr.  Monroe. 

The  spectacle  of  the  division  superintendent 
talking  to  the  old  negro  attracted  a  group  of  lazy 
fellows,  —  the  driver  of  an  express  wagon,  the 
man  who  hauls  the  mail  to  the  post-office,  a 
boy  who  sold  fruit  to  passengers  on  the  train,  two 
porters,  with  tin  signs  upon  their  hats,  who 
solicited  patronage  from  the  hotels. 

"  Why,  Pop,"  said  the  superintendent,  winking 
to  the  expressman,  "  this  lump  looks  as  though 
it  contained  gold." 

"  Yes,"  put  in  the  expressman,  "  that's  how 
gold  comes  in  a  mine.  I've  often  handled  it. 
That's  the  stuff,  sure." 

The  fruit-selling  boy  and  the  mail-man  grinned. 
Pop  Thornberry  opened  wide  his  mouth  and  eyes 
and  softly  repeated  the  word: 

"Goal!" 

"I'd  be  careful  of  it,"  advised  Mr.  Monroe, 
handing  the  clod  back  to  the  negro. 

Pop  took  it  with  a  trembling  hand  and  looked 
at  it.  Presently  he  asked: 

"  Wat '11  you  give  me  foh  dat  air  goal,  Mistah 
Monroe." 

"  Oh,  a  piece  like  that  would  be  no  use  to  me. 
It  has  to  be  washed  and  it  wouldn't  be  worth 
while  putting  just  one  piece  through  the  whole 

245 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

process  of  cleaning.  Now,  if  you  have  a  lot  of  it, 
we  might  go  into  partnership  in  the  gold  business." 

Before  the  old  man  could  answer  to  this 
pleasantry  a  whistle  was  heard  up  the  track,  and 
Pop  was  forgotten  in  the  excitement  attending 
the  arrival  of  the  train. 

Dislodged  from  the  baggage-truck,  the  old  man 
looked  around  for  Mr.  Monroe,  but  the  superin- 
tendent had  disappeared.  Pop  did  not  seek  to 
carry  any  satchels  that  day.  His  mind  was  full 
of  other  matters.  He  went  behind  the  station 
and  sat  down  beside  the  river. 

"  Goal!  "  That  meant  proper  tombstones  for 
the  graves  of  his  wife  and  children,  a  new  pulpit 
for  the  African  Methodist  Church,  equal  to  that 
of  the  African  Baptist  Church,  future  ease  for 
his  somewhat  weary  legs  and  arms  and  back. 

The  next  afternoon  the  division  superintendent 
found  himself  awaited  at  his  office  door  by  Pop 
Thornberry,  who  was  very  dusty  and  who  carried 
a  basket  heavy  with  clods  of  clay  and  mica.  He 
had  been  out  to  the  arid  field  that  morning. 

"  H-sh!  "  whispered  Pop.  "  Doan'  say  a  word, 
Mistah  Monroe!  Hyah's  a  lot  o'  dem  air  goal 
lumps,  and  I  know  weah  dey's  bushels  moah,  — 
plenty  'nuff  to  go  into  pahtnehship  on." 

The   superintendent   looked   bewildered,    then 


MR.    THORNBERRY'S    ELDORADO 

amused,  then  ashamed.  Embarrassed  for  a 
reply,  he  finally  said: 

"  I  haven't  time  to  talk  to  you  now,  Pop. 
Besides,  I've  made  up  my  mind  not  to  go  into  the 
gold  business.  You  see,  I'm  rich  enough  already. 
Good  day." 

Thereafter  Pop  lay  in  wait  for  Mr.  Monroe 
daily,  but  the  superintendent  always  avoided  him. 
Pop  neglected  to  earn  his  living  and  spent  his 
time  going  about  town  with  his  basket  of  clods 
in  search  of  the  superintendent.  Finally  being 
openly  ignored  by  Mr.  Monroe  when  the  two  met 
face  to  face,  Pop  became  angry  and  took  his 
secret  to  a  jeweller  on  Main  Street.  The  jeweller 
laughed  and  told  Pop  that  the  gold  in  the  basket 
must  be  worth  at  least  a  thousand  dollars,  but 
he  was  not  in  a  position  to  buy  crude  gold.  Then 
the  jeweller  made  known  to  many  that  Pop  Thorn- 
berry  was  crazy  over  some  lumps  of  mud  and  mica 
that  he  mistook  for  gold. 

After  that,  people  would  stop  Pop  on  the  street 
and  say: 

"  Let's  see  a  piece  of  the  gold  in  your 
basket." 

Pop,  astonished  that  his  secret  was  out,  but 
somewhat  proud  at  being  thought  the  possessor 
of  a  treasure,  would  hesitate  and  then  comply. 

247 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

The  small  boys  soon  recognized  in  Pop's  delusion 
a  new  means  of  fun.  Observing  the  solicitude 
with  which  he  watched  his  clod  while  out  of  his 
own  hands,,  they  would  innocently  ask  for  a 
glimpse  into  his  basket.  This  granted,  they 
would  grasp  a  piece  of  his  treasure  and  run  away, 
greatly  annoying  the  old  man,  who  was  in  a  state 
of  keen  distress  until  he  recovered  the  abstracted 
clod.  These  affairs  between  Pop  and  the  boys 
were  of  hourly  recurrence.  They  diverted  bar- 
room loungers  and  passers-by. 

Pop  called  on  one  local  capitalist  after  another, 
seeking  one  who  would  buy  his  gold  or  aid  into 
preparing  it  for  the  market.  All  laughed  at  his 
delusion,  deeming  it  harmless,  and  all  gave  him 
good  reason  for  not  accepting  his  offer  of  business 
partnership.  So  he  went  from  the  bank  president 
to  the  baker,  from  the  member  of  congress  for 
whom  he  had  voted  to  the  barber,  from  the  hotel 
proprietor  to  the  bartender.  The  negroes  of  the 
town,  feeling  that  their  race  was  humiliated  in 
Pop,  began  to  hold  aloof  from  him.  No  serious- 
minded  person  who  learned  of  his  delusion  gave 
it  a  second  thought. 

"  Say  Pop,  where  do  you  get  this  gold,  any- 
how? "  asked  a  tobacco-chewing  gamin  at  the 
railroad  station  one  day. 

248 


MR.   THORNBERRY'S   ELDORADO 

"  Dat's  my  business,"  replied  Thornberry, 
with  some  dignity. 

"  Oh,"  said  his  questioner,  "  I  know.  Tobe 
McStenger  followed  you  out  the  other  day  and  saw 
where  you  got  it.  He'd  a  brung  some  in  hisself, 
but  it  wasn't  on  his  property." 

"  Yes,  Pop,  you  better  look  out,"  put  in  a 
telegraph  operator,  "  or  you'll  be  taken  up  for 
trespassing.  Tisn't  your  land,  you  know,  where 
you  find  your  gold." 

There  was  no  truth  in  the  assertion  of  the  gamin. 
No  one  had  taken  the  trouble  to  follow  Pop  in 
his  semiweekly  excursions  to  the  barren  field. 
But  the  old  man  knew  that  the  field  was  not  his. 
A  ludicrous  expression  of  overwhelming  fright 
came  over  his  face. 

Three  days  afterward,  the  farmer  who  owned 
the  worthless  field  was  astonished  when  Pop 
offered  to  buy  it. 

"But  what  on  earth  do  you  want  that  land  fer ? " 
asked  the  farmer,  sitting  on  his  barnyard  fence. 

Pop  made  a  guilty  attempt  to  appear  guileless, 
and  told  the  farmer  that  he  wished  to  build  a 
shanty  and  raise  potatoes.  He  was  tired  of 
living  in  town  and  sought  the  quietude  of  the 
hills. 

"  Bein'  as  dat  ere  fiel'  ain't  good  foh  much,  I 
249 


TALES  FROM   BOHEMIA 

thought  you  might  be  willin'  to  paht  with  it," 
explained  Pop. 

The  farmer  eventually  agreed  to  build  a  shanty 
on  the  field  and  sell  it  to  Pop  for  $180.  Pop 
desired  immediate  occupancy.  There  was  a  legal 
hitch,  owing  to  the  badness  of  the  land  and  the 
questionable  condition  of  Pop's  mind.  But  the 
transfer  of  the  property  was  finally  recorded. 

Pop  no  longer  had  to  fear  arrest  for  trespass. 
His  gold  field  was  now  legally  his.  But  he  was 
still  kept  uneasy  by  his  inability  to  make  his 
gold  marketable.  His  uneasiness  increased  as 
September  approached.  He  had  applied  to  the 
purchase  of  the  field  the  sum  saved  to  cancel 
the  mortgage  upon  his  house  at  the  rear  end  of  the 
town. 

The  three  days  before  the  foreclosure  of  the 
mortgage  were  days  of  exquisite  anguish  to  Pop. 
When  the  foreclosure  came  and  he  and  his  goods 
were  turned  out  on  the  banks  of  the  creek  to  make 
room  for  the  mill-owner's  improvements,  his 
mental  turmoil  ended.  He  took  the  crisis  calmly. 

"  Jes'  wait,"  he  said  to  a  neighbour  who  had 
stopped  at  sight  of  the  moving-out.  "  Wait  till 
I  get  dat  ere  goal  on  de  mahket.  I'll  buil'  a  mill 
dat'll  drive  dis  yer  mill  out  o'  d'  business.  Den 
I'll  done  buy  back  dis  yer  ol'  home." 

250 


MR.   THORNBERRY'S   ELDORADO 

But  the  next  day,  when  the  unexpected  hap- 
pened, —  when  builders  began  to  tear  down  his 
house,  —  the  enormity  of  his  deed  dawned  upon 
him.  After  a  day  of  moaning  and  staring,  as  he 
sat  amidst  his  household  goods  on  the  bank  of 
the  creek,  he  became  animated  by  a  deep  rage 
against  the  mill-owner.  Now  more  than  ever 
had  he  a  special  purpose  for  enriching  himself 
by  means  of  his  treasure  across  the  hill. 

The  coming  of  two  circuses  in  succession  had 
taken  the  interest  of  the  boys  away  from  Pop 
during  August  and  part  of  September.  Now  they 
turned  again  to  him  for  amusement.  First  they 
besieged  the  abandoned  stable  to  which  he  had 
conveyed  his  goods,  and  in  which  he  slept,  —  for 
he  had  not  found  will  to  betake  himself  from  the 
town  he  had  so  long  inhabited,  and  his  shanty  in 
the  field  remained  unoccupied.  His  purchase 
of  the  land  had  betrayed  to  general  knowledge 
the  location  of  his  treasure,  of  which  he  continued 
to  bring  in  new  specimens. 

One  October  day  he  had  just  come  from  vainly 
attempting  to  induce  the  postmaster  to  join  him 
in  the  enterprise  of  exploiting  his  gold-field.  In 
front  of  the  post-office,  he  was  met  by  some 
boys  coming  noisily  from  school.  They  sur- 
rounded him  and  demanded  to  see  the  gold  in 

251 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

his  basket.  As  the  town  policeman  was  sauntering 
up  the  street,  Pop  felt  safe  in  refusing.  The  boys, 
also  observing  the  officer  of  the  law,  contented 
themselves  with  retaliating  in  words  only. 

"  Say,  Pop,"  cried  one  of  them,  "  you'd  better 
keep  an  eye  on  your  gold-field.  Nick  Hennessey 
knows  where  it  is,  and  he's  gittin'  up  a  diggin' 
party  to  take  a  wagon  out  some  night  and  bring 
away  all  your  gold." 

The  boys,  laughing  at  this  quickly  invented 
announcement,  ran  off  after  a  hand-organ.  The 
old  man  stood  perfectly  still,  or  as  nearly  so  as  the 
feebleness  of  his  legs  would  permit. 

That  evening  Pop  was  missing  from  the  town. 
And  when  Abraham  Wesley,  who  had  often  lent 
his  shotgun  to  the  old  man,  went  to  look  for  that 
weapon,  intending  to  shoot  glass  balls  in  the  fair- 
grounds across  the  river,  the  fowling-piece  too 
was  missing. 

Pop  had  gone  out  to  protect  his  possession. 
Three  nights  passed  and  three  days.  The  few 
country  folk  and  others  who  travelled  that  way 
during  this  time  saw  the  old  man  walking  about 
in  his  field  or  sitting  in  front  of  his  shanty,  his 
shotgun  on  his  shoulders,  his  eyes  fixed  sus- 
piciously on  all  who  might  become  intruders. 
Night  and  day  he  patrolled  his  little  domain. 

252 


NIGHT    AND    DAY    HE    PATROLLED    HIS    LITTLE    DOMAIN. 


MR.    THORNBERRY'S   ELDORADO 

At  dusk  of  the  third  day  a  lively  party  was 
returning  to  the  town  in  a  wagon  from  a  search 
for  nuts.  The  full  moon  was  rising  and  the  merry- 
makers were  singing.  One  of  the  girls  was  thirsty. 
When  she  saw  the  shanty  in  the  rugged  field,  she 
asked  a  young  man  to  get  her  a  glass  of  water  at 
the  hut.  The  wagon  stopped  and  the  youth 
climbed  astride  the  rail  fence.  Suddenly  an  un- 
naturally shrill  and  excited  voice  was  heard: 

"  Hyah,  you,  doan'  come  no  farder!  Dese  yer's 
my  premises!  " 

From  behind  the  empty  shanty  appeared  the 
thin  old  negro,  bareheaded,  his  shotgun  at  his 
shoulder,  a  striking  figure  against  the  rising  moon. 

The  young  man  descended  from  the  fence  into 
the  field.  There  came  a  flash  and  a  crack  from 
Pop  Thornberry's  gun.  The  youth  felt  the 
sting  of  a  piece  of  birdshot  in  his  leg.  Howling 
and  limping,  he  turned  quickly  over  the  fence 
into  the  wagon,  which  made  a  hasty  flight. 

The  next  morning  some  idlers  went  out  from  the 
town  to  the  scene  of  the  adventure.  They  found 
the  old  man  lying  hatless  in  the  middle  of  the  field, 
face  downwards,  upon  the  shotgun.  He  had  died 
of  sheer  exhaustion,  on  guard  —  and  on  his  own 
land,  as  befit  an  honest  citizen  who  had  never 
intruded  upon  the  peace  of  other  men. 

253 


AT  THE  STAGE  DOOR 


XXI 

AT   THE    STAGE   DOOR  x 

FIRST  let  me  explain  how  I  came  to  be  sitting 
in  so  unsavoury  a  place  as  Gorson's  "  fifteen  cent 
oyster  and  chop  house  "  that  night.  Most  news- 
paper men  —  the  rank  and  file  —  receive  remuner- 
ation by  the  week.  Those  not  given  over  to  do- 
mesticity, those  who  enjoy  that  alluring  regularity 
identical  with  liberty,  fare  sumptuously,  as  a  rule, 
on  "  pay-day."  Thereafter  the  quantity  and 
quality  of  the  good  things  of  life  that  they  enjoy 
dimmish  daily  until  the  next  pay-day. 

Pay-day  with  us  was  Friday.  This  was  Thurs- 
day night.  I  having  gone  to  unusual  lengths  of 
good  cheer  in  the  early  part  of  that  week,  had  now 
fallen  low,  and  was  duly  thankful  for  what  I  could 
get  —  even  at  Gorson's. 

As  my  glance  wandered  over  my  table,  over  the 
beer-bottles  and  the  oysters,  beyond  the  crowd 

1  Courtesy  of  Lippincotfs   Magazine,    Copyright,  1892,  by  J.  B. 
Lippincott  Company. 

257 


TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

of  ravenous  and  vulgar  eaters  and  hurrying 
waiters,  to  the  street  door,  some  one  opened  that 
door  from  the  outside  and  entered.  An  odd  look- 
ing personage  this  some  one. 

A  person  very  tall  and  conspicuously  thin. 
These  peculiarities  were  accentuated  by  the 
dilapidated  frock  coat  that  reached  to  his  knees, 
and  thus  concealed  the  greater  portion  of  his  gray 
summer  trousers,  which  "  bagged  "  exceedingly 
and  were  picturesquely  frayed  at  the  bottom 
edges,  as  I  could  see  when  he  came  nearer  to  me. 
He  wore  a  faded  straw  hat,  which  looked  forlorn, 
as  the  month  was  January.  His  face,  despite  its 
angularity  of  outline  and  its  wanness,  had  that 
expression  of  complacency  which  often  relieves 
from  pathos  the  countenances  of  harmlessly 
demented  people.  His  hair  was  gray,  but  his 
somewhat  formidable  looking  moustache  was  still 
dark.  He  carried  an  unadorned  walking-stick 
and  under  his  left  arm  was  what  a  journalistic 
eye  immediately  recognized  as  manuscript.  From 
the  man's  aspect  of  extreme  poverty,  I  deduced 
that  his  manuscripts  were  never  accepted. 

As  he  passed  the  cashier's  desk,  he  stopped, 
lowered  his  body,  not  by  stooping  in  the  usual 
way,  but  by  bending  his  knees,  and  with  a  quick 
sweep  of  his  eyes  by  way  of  informing  himself 

258 


AT  THE   STAGE   DOOR 

whether  or  not  he  was  observed,  he  picked  up 
a  cigar  stump  that  some  one  had  dropped 
there. 

Then  he  walked  with  a  rather  shambling  but 
self-important  gait  to  the  table  next  mine,  care- 
fully placed  his  manuscript  upon  a  chair,  and  sat 
down  upon  it.  He  was  soon  lost  in  a  prolonged 
contemplation  of  the  limited  bill  of  fare  posted  on 
the  wall,  a  study  which  resulted  in  his  ordering, 
through  a  hustling,  pugnacious-looking  waiter, 
a  bowl  of  oatmeal. 

A  bowl  of  oatmeal  is  the  least  expensive  item 
on  the  bill  of  fare  at  Gorson's.  When  I  hear  a 
man  ordering  oatmeal  in  a  cheap  eating-house, 
my  heart  aches  for  him.  I  had  just  the  money  and 
the  intention  to  procure  another  bottle  of  beer 
and  another  box  of  cigarettes.  The  sum  required 
to  obtain  these  necessaries  of  life  is  exactly  the 
price  of  a  bowl  of  oatmeal  and  a  steak  at  Gorson's. 
So  I  hastily  arose  to  go,  and  on  my  way  out  I  had 
a  brief  conversation  with  the  bellicose-appearing 
waiter,  which  resulted  in  my  unknown  friend's 
being  overwhelmed  with  amazement  later  when 
the  waiter  brought  him  a  warm  steak  with  his 
oatmeal  and  said  that  some  one  else  had  already 
paid  his  bill.  I  did  not  wait  to  witness  this  result, 
for  the  man  looked  one  of  the  sort  to  put  forth  a 

259 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

show  of  indignation  at  being  made  an  object  of 
charity. 

An  hour  later  I  saw  him  walking  with  an  air  of 
consequence  up  Broadway,  smoking  what  was 
probably  the  bit  of  cigar  he  had  picked  up  in  the 
restaurant.  He  still  carried  his  manuscript, 
which  was  wrapped  in  a  soiled  blue  paper.  As 
I  was  hurrying  up-town  on  an  assignment  for  the 
newspaper,  I  could  not  observe  his  movements 
further  than  to  see  that  when  he  reached  Four- 
teenth Street  he  made  for  one  of  the  benches  in 
Union  Square. 

It  was  by  the  size,  shape,  and  blue  cover  that 
I  recognized  that  manuscript  two  days  later 
upon  the  desk  of  the  editor  of  the  Sunday  sup- 
plementary pages  of  the  paper,  as  I  was  sub- 
mitting to  that  personage  a  "  special  "  I  had 
written  upon  the  fertile  theme,  "  Producing  a 
Burlesque." 

"May  I  ask  what  that  stuff  is  wrapped  in  blue? " 

"  Certainly.  A  crank  in  the  last  stages  of  alco- 
holism and  mental  depression  brought  it  in  yester- 
day. It's  an  idiotic  jumble  about  Beautiful 
Women  of  History,  part  in  prose  and  part  in  dog- 
gerel." 

"  Of  course  you'll  reject  it?  " 

"  Naturally.  I'll  ease  his  mind  by  telling  him 
260 


AT   THE   STAGE   DOOR 

the  subject  lacks  contemporaneousness.  Have 
a  cigarette?  By  the  way,  have  you  any  special 
interest  in  the  rubbish?  " 

"  No;  I  only  think  I've  seen  it  before  some- 
where. What's  the  writer's  name  and  address?  " 

"  It's  to  be  called  for.  He  didn't  leave  any 
address.  From  that  fact  and  his  appearance,  I 
infer  that  he  doesn't  have  any  permanent  abode. 
Here's  his  name,  —  Ernest  Ruddle.  Not  half 
as  much  individuality  in  the  name  as  in  the  man. 
I  remember  him  because  he  had  a  straw  hat 
on." 

The  burlesque  production  which  had  served 
as  material  for  my  Sunday  article  saw  the  light 
for  the  first  time  on  the  following  Monday  night. 
There  being  no  other  theatrical  novelty  in  New 
York  that  night,  the  town  —  represented  by  the 
critics  and  the  sporting  and  self-styled  Bohemian 
elements  —  was  there.  The  performance  was  to 
have  a  popular  comedian  as  the  central  figure, 
and  was  to  serve,  also,  to  reintroduce  a  once 
favourite  comic-opera  prima  donna,  who  had 
been  abroad  for  some  years.  This  stage  queen  had 
once  beheld  the  town  at  her  feet.  She  had  ab- 
dicated her  throne  in  the  height  of  her  glory, 
having  made  the  greatest  success  of  her  career 
on  a  certain  Monday  night,  and  having  disap- 

261 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

peared   from    New    York    on    Tuesday,    shortly 
afterward  materializing  in  Paris. 

There  was  abundant  curiosity  awaiting  the 
appearance  of  Louise  Moran,  as  the  playbills 
called  her.  It  was  whispered,  to  be  sure,  by 
some  who  had  seen  her  in  burlesque  in  London, 
after  her  flight  from  America,  that  she  had  grown 
a  bit  passe"e;  but  this  was  refuted  by  the  inter- 
viewers who  had  met  her  on  her  return  and  had 
duly  chronicled  that  she  looked  "  as  rosy  and 
youthful  as  ever."  Brokers,  gilded  youth,  all 
that  curious  lot  of  masculinity  classified  under 
the  general  head  of  "  men  about  town,"  crowded 
into  the  theatre  that  night,  and  when,  after  being 
heralded  at  length  by  the  chorus,  the  returned 
prima  donna  appeared,  in  shining  drab  tights, 
she  had  a  long  and  noisy  reception. 

My  friendly  acquaintance  with  the  leading 
comedian  and  the  stage  manager  had  served  to 
obtain  for  me  an  unusual  privilege,  —  that  of 
witnessing  the  first  night's  performance  from  the 
wings.  As  I  looked  out  across  the  stage  and  the 
footlights,  and  saw  the  sea  of  faces  in  the  yellowish 
haze,  a  familiar  visage  held  my  eye.  It  was  in  the 
front  row  of  the  top  gallery,  and  was  projected 
far  over  the  railing,  putting  its  owner  in  some 
risk  of  decapitation.  An  intent  look  on  the  pale 

262 


AT   THE    STAGE    DOOR 

countenance  at  once  distinguished  it  from  the 
terrace  of  uninteresting,  monotonous  faces  that 
rose  back  of  it.  The  face  was  that  of  my  man  of 
the  restaurant  and  of  the  blue-covered  manuscript. 
I  stood,  somewhat  in  the  way  of  the  light  man, 
where  my  eye  could  command  most  of  the  stage, 
and  a  brief  section  of  the  auditorium,  from  parquet 
to  roof.  The  star  of  the  evening,  having  rattled 
off,  with  much  sang-froid  and  a  London  intonation, 
a  few  lines  of  thinly  humourous  dialogue,  came 
toward  the  footlights  to  sing.  While  the  conductor 
of  the  orchestra  poised  his  baton  and  cast  an 
apprehensive  look  at  her,  she  began : 

"  I'm  one  of  the  swells 

Whose  accent  tells 
That  we've  done  the  Contenong." 

When  she  had  sung  only  to  this  point,  people 
in  the  audience  were  exchanging  significant 
smiles.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it;  Louise  Moran's 
voice  had  lost  its  beauty.  The  years  and  joys 
of  life  abroad  had  done  their  work.  We  now 
knew  why  she  had  given  up  comic  opera  and  had 
gone  into  burlesque.  The  house  was  so  taken  by 
surprise  that  at  the  end  of  her  second  stanza, 
where  applause  should  have  come,  none  came. 
There  was  no  occasion  for  her  to  draw  upon  her 
supply  of  "  encore  verses." 

263 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

Unprepared  for  the  chilling  silence  that  followed 
her  song,  she  bestowed  upon  the  audience  a  look 
of  mingled  astonishment,  pain,  and  resentment. 
But  she  recovered  self-possession  promptly  and 
delivered  the  few  spoken  lines  preceding  her  exit 
gaily  enough.  Her  face  clouded  as  soon  as  she 
was  off  the  stage.  She  abused  her  maid  in  her 
dressing-room  and  sent  the  comedian's  "  dresser  " 
out  for  some  troches.  The  state  of  her  mind  was 
not  improved  by  the  sound  of  a  hail-storm-like 
sound  that  came  from  the  direction  of  the  stage 
shortly  after,  —  the  applause  at  the  leading 
comedian's  entrance. 

As  the  newspapers  said  the  next  day,  the  only 
honours  of  that  performance  were  with  the  come- 
dian. The  star  of  Louise  Moran  had  set.  Not 
only  was  her  singing- voice  a  ruin,  but  the  actress 
had  grown  coarse  in  visage.  The  once  willowy 
outlines  of  her  figure  had  rounded  vulgarly.  On 
the  face,  audacity  had  taken  place  of  piquancy. 
Even  the  dark  gray  eyes,  which  somehow  seemed 
black  across  the  footlights,  had  lost  some 
lustre. 

Why  had  the  once  lovely  creature  come  back 
from  Europe  to  disturb  the  memories  of  her  other 
radiant  self,  and  to  turn  those  dainty  photographs 
of  her  earlier  person  into  lies? 

264 


AT   THE   STAGE   DOOR 

Every  man  in  the  house  was  thinking  this 
question  at  the  end  of  the  first  act. 

She  had  another  solo  to  sing  in  the  second  act. 
It  was  while  she  was  attempting  this  that  my 
glance  strayed  to  the  man  in  the  gallery.  His 
face  this  time  surprised  me. 

It  wore  a  look  of  ineffable  sympathy  and  sorrow. 
Surely  tears  were  falling  from  the  sad  eyes. 

This  pity  touched  me.  It  was  so  solitary.  The 
feeling  of  the  rest  of  the  audience  was  plainly  one 
of  resentful  derision  at  being  disappointed. 

After  the  performance  I  waited  for  the  comedian. 
He  was  called  before  the  curtain  and  a  speech 
was  extorted  from  him.  There  were  but  a  few 
faint  cries  for  the  actress,  to  which  she  did  not 
respond.  She  had  summoned  the  manager  to  her 
dressing-room.  While  she  hastily  assumed  her 
wraps  for  the  street,  she  was  excitedly  complain- 
ing of  the  musical  director  "  for  not  knowing  his 
business,"  the  comedian  for  "  interfering  "  in  her 
scenes,  the  composer  for  writing  the  music  too 
high,  and  the  librettist  for  supplying  such  "  beastly 
rubbish  "  in  the  way  of  dialogue. 

"  Very  well;  I'll  call  a  rehearsal  to-morrow 
at  ten,"  the  conciliatory  manager  replied.  "  You 
talk  to  Myers  "  (the  musical  director)  "  yourself 
about  it.  And  you  can  introduce  those  two 

265 


TALES   FROM  BOHEMIA 

songs  you  speak  of.  Myers  will  fix  the  other 
music  to  suit  your  voice." 

"And  you  start  Elliott  to  write  over  the  libretto 
at  once,"  she  commanded,  "  and  see  that  that 
song  and  dance  clown  "  (the  comedian)  "  never 
comes  on  the  stage  when  I'm  on,  if  it  can  be 
helped,  or  I  won't  go  on  at  all.  That's  settled!  " 

The  comedian  and  I  left  the  stage  door  together. 
The  actress's  cab  was  waiting  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  dark  alley-like  street  upon  which  the 
stage  door  opened.  This  street  or  court,  stretching 
its  gloomy  way  from  a  main  street,  is  a  place  of 
tall  warehouses,  rear  walls,  and  bad  paving. 
The  electric  light  at  its  point  of  junction  with  the 
main  street  does  not  penetrate  half-way  to  the 
stage  entrance,  and  the  blackness  thereabout 
is  diluted  with  the  rays  of  the  lonely,  indifferent 
gas-lamp  that  projects  above  the  old  wooden 
door.  Farther  on,  an  old-fashioned  street-lamp 
marks  the  place  where  the  alley  turns  to  wind 
about  until  it  eventually  reaches  another  main 
street. 

This  dark  region,  the  feeble  lamp  above  the 
stage  door,  the  shadows  opposite,  have  a  peculiar 
charm,  especially  at  night.  One  would  not  think 
that  within  that  door  is  a  short  corridor  leading 
to  the  mystic  realm  which  the  people  "  in  front  " 

266 


AT   THE    STAGE   DOOR 

idealize  into  a  wonderful  inaccessible  country, 
the  playworld.  Back  here,  especially  on  a  rainy 
night  and  before  the  playworld's  inhabitants  begin 
to  sally  forth  to  partake  of  terrestrial  beer  and 
sandwiches,  one  seems  millions  of  miles  away  from 
the  crowds  of  men  and  women  in  the  theatre  and 
from  the  illumined  street  in  front. 

The  ordinary  world,  when  passing  this  strange 
place,  peers  in  curiously  from  the  main  street. 
Sometimes  folks  wait  at  the  corner  of  the  street 
to  see  the  stage  people  come  out.  If  the  piece  is 
a  burlesque  or  a  comic  opera,  much  life  moves  in 
the  darkness  back  here.  Light  comes  from  the 
up-stairs  windows  of  the  theatre,  the  dressing- 
rooms  of  the  subordinate  players  being  up  there. 
Snatches  of  song  from  feminine  throats,  mere 
trills  sometimes,  isolated  fragments  of  melody, 
break  into  the  silence.  These  are  always  numerous 
during  the  half-hour  after  the  performance  and 
before  the  actors  have  left  the  theatre.  Chorus 
girls  in  ulsters  emerge  in  troops,  usually  by  twos, 
from  the  door  beneath  the  light,  and  it  is  con- 
stantly opening  and  shutting.  In  the  gloom 
opposite  the  door  hover  a  few  bold  youths,  sud- 
denly become  timid,  smoking  cigarettes  and 
trying  to  look  like  men  of  the  world.  As  the  come- 
dian and  I  came  forth,  one  of  these  young  men 

267 


struck  a  match  to  light  a  cigarette.  The  momen- 
tary flash  attracted  my  eye,  and  I  saw  in  the 
farthest  shadow,  with  his  gaze  upon  the  stage 
door,  my  man  of  the  restaurant,  and  the  manu- 
script, and  the  gallery.  If  possible,  he  looked  more 
haggard  than  before,  and,  as  it  was  cold,  he 
shivered  perceptibly. 

"  Whom  can  he  be  waiting  for,  I  wonder?  "  I 
said,  aloud. 

The  comedian,  thinking  that  I  alluded  to  the 
cabman,  half -asleep  upon  his  seat,  replied,  as  he 
turned  up  the  collar  of  his  overcoat : 

"  Oh,  he's  waiting  for  Miss  Moran.  She  didn't 
always  go  home  from  the  theatre  in  a  cab.  She 
acquired  the  habit  abroad,  I  suppose.  How  she's 
changed.  I  knew  her  in  other  days." 

"  Really?  I  didn't  know  that.  Tell  me  about 
her." 

"  It's  a  common  story.  She's  the  result  of  a 
mercenary  mother's  schemes.  She's  not  as  old 
as  people  think,  you  know.  Her  career  has  been 
aventful,  which  makes  it  seem  long.  But  I  was 
in  the  cast,  playing  a  small  part  in  the  first  play 
she  ever  appeared  in,  and  that  was  only  twelve 
years  ago.  She  was  about  twenty-one  then.  She 
waited  on  customers  in  her  mother's  little  sta- 
tionery store,  until  one  day  she  eloped  with  a  poor 

268 


AT   THE   STAGE   DOOR 

young  fellow  whom  she  loved,  in  order  to  escape 
a  rich  old  man  whom  her  mother  had  selected  for 
a  son-in-law.  She  could  have  endured  poverty 
well  enough,  if  the  mother  hadn't  done  the 
'  I  -  forgive  -  and  -  Heaven  -  bless  -  you  -  my  - 
children  '  act,  after  which  she  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing the  girl  quarrel  with  her  husband  continually. 
She  was  a  schemer,  that  mother.  A  theatrical 
manager,  whom  she  knew,  was  introduced  to  the 
girl,  who  was  more  beautiful  then  than  ever  after- 
ward. The  mother  managed  to  have  the  girl's 
husband  discharged  from  the  bank  where  he  was 
employed  on  the  same  day  that  the  manager 
made  the  girl  an  offer  to  go  on  the  stage.  The  boy 
naturally  wanted  to  keep  his  wife  with  him,  but 
the  mother  told  him  he  was  a  fool. 

"  '  I'll  travel  with  her,'  she  said,  '  and  you  stay 
here  and  get  another  situation.'  The  wife, 
intoxicated  at  the  prospects  of  stage  triumphs, 
urged,  and  the  boy  gave  in. 

"  A  year  or  so  after  that,  the  girl  had  drifted 
completely  out  of  the  husband's  life,  as  they  say 
in  society  plays,  the  mother  managed  to  bring 
about  the  estrangement  so  promptly. 

"  The  husband  stayed  at  home  and  got  work 
in  a  railroad  office  or  somewhere,  so  as  to  earn 
money  with  which  to  drink  himself  to  death  — 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

I  say,  let's  go  in  here  and  eat.  If  we  go  to  the 
club,  I'll  be  bored  to  death  with  congratula- 
tions." 

We  turned  into  a  lighted  vestibule  and  mounted 
the  stairs  to  a  modest  little  cafe"  over  a  Broadway 
saloon.  There,  over  the  cigars  and  Pilsner 
presently  the  comedian  continued  the  story: 

"  When  the  husband  learned  that  to  his  charm- 
ing mother-in-law's  machinations  he  owed  the 
loss  of  his  position  and  his  wife,  he  bided  his  time, 
like  a  sensible  fellow,  and  one  day  he  called  upon 
the  old  lady  at  her  flat.  Without  a  word,  he 
proceeded  to  pull  out  much  of  her  hair  and  other- 
wise to  disfigure  her  permanently,  which,  as  she 
was  a  vain  woman,  made  her  miserable  the  rest 
of  her  days.  Then  he  disappeared,  and  has  not 
been  heard  of  since.  It  seems  strange  the  thing 
never  got  into  the  newspapers.  By  the  way,  you 
won't  print  this  story,  my  boy,  until  she  or  I  leave 
the  profession." 

"  Why  not?  Are  you  the  only  man  who  knows 
it?" 

"  No;  it  was  general  gossip  in  the  profession  at 
that  time." 

"  How  did  you  get  it  so  straight?  " 

"  She  told  me.  I  knew  her  well  in  those  days. 
Oh,  use  the  story  if  you  like,  only  don't  credit  it 

270 


AT   THE    STAGE   DOOR 

to  me.    She's  very  mad  because  I  made  a  hit  to 
night  and  she  didn't." 

"  But  what  was  the  name  of  her  husband?  " 

"  Poor  devil!  —  his  name  was  —  what  was  it, 
anyhow?  By  Jove,  I  can't  think  of  it!  It'll 
come  back  to  me,  though,  and  I'll  let  you  know 
later.  He  had  literary  aspirations,  by  the  way. 
She  used  to  laugh  at  the  poetry  he  had  written 
about  her.  Poor  boy!  " 

The  next  night,  radical  changes  having  been 
effected  in  the  burlesque,  the  prima  donna  made 
a  more  creditable  showing.  I  happened  to  be  at 
the  stage  door  again  when  she  came  out  with  her 
maid  after  the  performance,  as  I  had  under  my 
guidance  one  of  the  newspaper's  artists,  who  had 
been  making  some  sketches  of  life  behind  the 
scenes.  She  was  in  a  gayer  mood  than  that  in 
which  she  had  been  on  the  previous  night. 

As  she  was  entering  the  cab,  I  heard  a  muffled 
exclamation,  which  came  from  the  shadow  oppo- 
site the  stage  door.  Dimly  in  that  shadow  could 
be  seen  a  form  with  arms  outstretched  toward 
the  woman,  as  in  an  involuntary  gesture.  The 
cab  rolled  away.  The  form  emerged  from  the 
darkness  and  wearily  strode  by.  It  was  that  of 
my  manuscript  man.  He  had  the  same  straw 
hat,  stick,  and  frock  coat. 

271 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  That  queer  old  chap  must  be  really  in  love 
with  her,"  I  thought,  smiling.  Such  things  often 
happen.  I  knew  a  gallery  god  —  but  that  will 
keep.  Evidently  here  was  an  amusing  case,  not 
without  its  aspect  of  pathos. 

Being  in  that  vicinity  on  the  following  night, 
I  strolled  up  to  the  stage  door,  merely  to  see 
whether  the  straw  hat  would  be  there  again. 
There  it  was,  patiently  waiting,  scourged  by  the 
most  ferocious  of  January  winds. 

Doubtless  the  man  came  here  every  night  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  his  divinity.  He  was  quite  un- 
obtrusive, and  I  was  probably  the  only  one  who 
noticed  his  constant  attendance.  I  learned  at  the 
newspaper  office  that  he  had  called  for  the  re- 
jected manuscript  bearing  his  name,  —  Ernest 
Ruddle.  Then  for  a  time  I  neither  saw  nor 
thought  of  him. 

One  night,  in  the  last  of  January,  —  the  coldest 
of  that  savage  winter,  —  I  happened  again  to  be 
in  the  corridor  leading  to  the  stage  door,  having 
come  from  within  the  theatre  in  advance  of  my 
friend  the  comedian,  with  whom  I  was  to  have 
supper  at  the  Actors'  Athletic  Club.  The  ac- 
tress's cab  was  waiting.  The  dark  little  portion  of 
the  world  back  there  was  deserted. 

Along  the  corridor,  through  which  the  sound 
272 


AT   THE   STAGE   DOOR 

of  chorus  girls'  laughter  came,  strolled  the  co- 
median, his  cigar  already  lighted  and  behind  it 
his  cheerful,  hearty,  smooth-shaven  visage  ap- 
pearing ruddy  from  the  recent  washing  off  of 
"  make-up." 

"Hello!"  he  began,  thrusting  his  hand  into 
his  overcoat  pockets.  "  By  the  way,  while  I 
think  of  it,  I  just  passed  Miss  Moran  coming  from 
the  dressing-room,  and  suddenly  that  name  came 
back  to  me,  the  name  of  her  husband.  It  was  a 
peculiar  name,  —  Ernest  Ruddle." 

Ernest  Ruddle!  the  name  on  the  manuscript! 
The  man  of  the  restaurant  and  the  gallery,  the 
tears,  the  waiting  at  the  stage  door,  were  ex- 
plained now.  Ere  we  reached  the  stage  door,  the 
actress  herself  appeared  in  the  corridor,  on  the  arm 
of  her  maid.  She  was  laughing,  rather  coarsely. 
We  stepped  aside  to  let  her  pass  out  into  the  night. 

"  So  the  manager  said  he'd  give  me  $50  more 
on  the  road,"  she  was  saying,  "  and  I  said  he 
would  have  to  make  it  $75  more  —  gracious! 
what's  this?  " 

She  had  stumbled  over  something  just  outside 
the  threshold  of  the  stage  door.  Her  companion 
stooped,  while  the  actress  jumped  aside  and  looked 
down  at  the  large  black  object  with  both  fright 
and  curiosity. 

273 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  It's  a  man,"  said  the  maid ;  "  drunk,  or  asleep, 
or  dead.  He  looks  frozen.  He's  a  tramp,  I  guess; 
hurry  away!  We'll  tell  the  policeman  on  the 
corner." 

The  actress  passed  on,  with  a  final  look  of  half- 
aversion,  half -pity,  at  the  prostrate  body.  The 
comedian  and  I  were  both  by  that  body  within 
two  seconds. 

"  Frozen  or  starved,  sure!  "  said  the  comedian. 
"  Poor  beggar!  Look  at  his  straw  hat.  Observe 
his  death-clutch  on  the  cane." 

From  down  the  alley  came  two  sounds:  one 
was  a  policeman's  approaching  footsteps;  the 
other,  of  a  woman's  laughter.  What,  to  be  sure, 
was  the  dead  or  drunken  body  of  an  unknown 
vagabond  to  her? 

And  it  seems  strange  that  I,  who  never  ex- 
changed speech  with  either  the  woman  or  the  man, 
was  the  only  one  in  the  world  who  might  recognize 
in  the  momentary  contact  of  the  living  with  the 
dead,  a  dramatic  situation. 


274 


POOR  YORICK 


THE  name  by  which  he  was  indicated  on  the 
playbills  was  Overfield.  His  real  name  was 
buried  in  the  far  past.  By  several  members  of  the 
company  to  which  he  belonged  he  was  often  called 
"  Poor  Yorick." 

I  asked  the  leading  juvenile  of  the  company  — 
young  Bridges,  who  was  supposed  to  attract 
women  to  the  theatre,  and  for  whose  glorification 
"  The  Lady  of  Lyons  "  was  sometimes  revived  at 
matinees  —  how  the  old  man  had  acquired  the 
nickname. 

"  I  gave  it  to  him  myself  last  season,"  replied 
Bridges,  loftily.  "  Can't  you  guess  why?  You 
remember  the  graveyard  scene  in  '  Hamlet.'  The 
skull  of  Yorick,  you  know,  had  lain  in  the  earth 
three  and  twenty  years.  Yorick  had  been  dead 
that  long.  Well,  the  old  man  had  been  dead  for 

1  Courtesy  of  Lippincotfs  Magazine.  Copyright,  1892,  by  J.  B. 
Lippincott  Company. 

277 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

about  the  same  length  of  time,  —  professionally 
dead,  I  mean.  See?  " 

It  was  true  that,  so  far  as  being  known  by  the 
world  went,  the  old  man  was  as  good,  or  as  bad, 
as  dead.  He  no  longer  played  other  than  quite 
unimportant  parts. 

It  was  said  by  some  one  that  he  was  the  poorest 
actor  and  the  noblest  man  in  the  country ;  a  state- 
ment commended  by  Jennison,  an  Englishman 
who  usually  played  villains,  to  this,  that  his  were 
the  worst  art  and  best  heart  in  the  profession. 

Poor  Yorick  was  a  thin  man,  with  a  smooth, 
gentle  face,  lamblike  blue  eyes,  and  curling  gray 
locks  that  receded  gracefully  from  his  forehead. 
He  had  just  an  individualizing  amount  of  the 
pomposity  characteristic  of  many  old-time  actors. 
He  was  not  known  to  have  any  living  kin.  He 
permitted  himself  one  weakness,  a  liking  for 
whiskey,  an  indulgence  which  was  never  noticed 
to  have  brought  appreciable  harm  upon  him. 

Once  I  asked  him  when  he  had  made  his  de"but. 
He  answered,  "  When  Joe  Jefferson  was  still  young 
and  before  Billie  Crane  was  heard  of." 

"  In  what  r61e?  " 

"  As  four  soldiers,"  he  replied. 

"  How  could  that  be?  " 

He  explained  that  he  had  first  appeared  as  a 
278 


"POOR   YORICK" 

super  in  a  military  drama,  marching  as  a  soldier. 
The  procession,  in  order  to  create  an  illusion  of 
length,  had  passed  across  the  stage  and  back,  the 
return  being  made  behind  the  scenes  four  times 
continuously  in  the  same  direction. 

The  old  man  took  uncomplainingly  to  the  name 
applied  to  him  by  Bridges.  He  must  have  known 
what  it  implied,  for  surely  he  could  not  have 
mistaken  himself  for  "  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of 
most  excellent  fancy."  His  non-resentment  was 
but  an  evidence  of  his  good  nature,  for  he  was 
aware  that  it  was  not  a  very  general  custom  of 
actors  to  give  each  other  nicknames,  and  that  his 
case  was  an  exception. 

When  he  was  playing  the  insignificant  part  of 
the  old  family  servant  of  a  New  York  banker,  in 
the  most  successful  comedy  of  that  season,  he 
came  to  know  Bridges  better  than  ever  before. 
Poor  Yorick  had  little  more  to  do  in  the  play  than 
to  come  on  and  turn  up  some  light,  arrange  some 
papers  on  a  desk,  go  off,  and  afterward  return  and 
lower  the  light.  Bridges  was  doing  the  r61e  of 
the  bank  clerk  in  love  with  the  banker's  daughter. 
Yorick  and  Bridges,  through  some  set  of  circum- 
stances or  other,  were  sharers  of  the  same  dressing- 
room. 

Upon  a  certain  Wednesday,  and  after  a  matine"e, 
279 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

the  two  were  in  their  dressing-room,  hastily  wash- 
ing up  their  faces  and  putting  on  their  street 
clothes.  Said  the  old  man : 

"  Did  you  notice  the  pretty  little  girl  in  the 
upper  box?  She  reminds  me  of  —  "  here  his  voice 
fell  and  took  on  suddenly  a  tone  of  sadness  — 
"  of  some  one  I  knew  once,  long  ago." 

Bridges,  drying  his  face  with  a  towel  before  the 
big  mirror,  did  not  observe  the  old  man's  change  of 
voice,  nor  did  he  heed  the  last  part  of  the  sentence. 

"  Notice  her?  "  he  answered,  with  a  touch  of 
triumphant  vanity  in  his  manner  of  speech.  "  I 
should  say  I  did.  She  was  there  on  my  account. 
I'm  going  to  make  a  date  with  her  for  supper  after 
the  performance  to-night." 

Old  Overfield,  sitting  on  a  trunk,  stared  at 
Bridges  in  surprise. 

"  Do  you  know  her?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  replied  the  leading  juvenile.  "  That  is, 
I  have  never  met  her,  but  she's  been  writing  me 
mash  notes  lately,  asking  for  a  meeting.  In  the 
last  one  she  said  she  could  get  away  from  her 
house  this  evening,  as  her  father's  out  of  town 
and  her  mother  is  going  over  to  Philadelphia  this 
afternoon.  So  she  invited  me  to  have  supper 
with  her  to-night,  and  was  good  enough  to  say 
she'd  occupy  that  box  this  afternoon,  so  I  could 

280 


"POOR   YORICK" 

see  what  she  was  like.  Didn't  you  observe  her 
embarrassment  when  I  came  on  the  stage  ?  I  paid 
no  attention  to  her  first  letter.  But,  having 
seen  her,  you  bet  I'll  answer  the  last  one  right 
away.  Don't  you  wish  you  were  me,  old  fellow?  " 

The  old  fellow  stood  up  and  looked  at  Bridges 
severely. 

"  Yes,  I  do  wish  I  were  you,  —  just  long  enough 
to  see  that  you  don't  answer  that  girl's  letter. 
Surely  you  don't  mean  to!  " 

"  Hello!  What  have  you  got  to  do  with  it? 
Do  you  know  the  young  woman?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  But  I  can  easily  guess  all  about 
her.  She's  some  romantic  little  girl,  still  pure 
and  good,  afflicted  with  one  of  those  idiotic  in- 
fatuations for  an  actor,  which  is  sure  to  bring 
trouble  to  her  if  you  don't  behave  like  a  white 
man.  You  want  to  show  her  the  idiocy  of  writing 
those  letters,  by  ignoring  them.  You  know  that 
actors  who  care  to  do  themselves  and  the  pro- 
fession credit  make  it  a  rule  never  to  answer  a 
letter  from  a  girl  like  that,  unless  to  give  her  a 
word  of  advice.  Come,  my  boy,  don't  disgrace 
yourself  and  profession.  Don't  spoil  the  life  of  a 
pretty  but  foolish  girl  who,  if  you  do  the  right 
thing,  will  soon  repent  her  silliness,  and  make 
some  square  young  fellow  a  good  wife/' 

281 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

Bridges  had  continued  to  dress  himself  during 
this  long  speech,  assuming  a  show  of  contemptu- 
ous indignation  as  it  progressed.  When  Overfield, 
astonished  at  his  own  eloquence,  had  subsided, 
the  young  man  replied,  in  a  quiet  but  rather  inso- 
lent tone: 

"  Look  here,  old  man,  don't  try  to  work  the 
Polonius  racket  on  me.  I  don't  like  advice,  and 
I'm  going  to  meet  that  girl,  see?  She  arranged 
the  whole  thing  herself;  she's  to  be  at  a  certain 
spot  at  eleven-thirty  P.  M.  with  a  cab.  All  I've 
got  to  do  is  to  signify  my  assent  in  a  single  line, 
which  I'm  going  to  write  and  send  by  messenger 
as  soon  as  I  get  out  of  here.  Of  course,  if  the  girl 
was  a  friend  of  yours,  it  would  be  different,  but 
she  isn't,  and  if  you  want  to  remain  on  good  terms 
with  me,  you  won't  put  in  your  oar.  Now  that's 
all  settled." 

"  Is  it?  Well,  young  man,  I  don't  want  to 
remain  on  good  terms  with  anybody  I  can't 
respect.  I  can't  respect  a  man  who  would  take 
advantage  of  a  love-struck  girl's  ignorance  of  life. 
If  you  meet  her,  you  will  simply  be  obtaining  fa- 
vours on  false  pretences,  anyhow,  for  you  know 
you're  not  really  half  the  fascinating,  romantic, 
clever  youth  that  you  seem  when  you're  on  the 
stage  speaking  another  man's  thoughts.  That  girl 

282 


"POOR   YORICK" 

is  probably  good,  and  she  looks  like  some  one  I 
used  to  know.  If  I  can  save  her,  I  will,  by  thun- 
der! " 

"  Really,  old  man,  you're  quite  worked  up.  If 
you  could  act  half  that  well  on  the  stage,  you'd 
be  doing  lead,  instead  of  dusting  furniture  while 
the  audience  gets  settled  in  its  seats." 

Old  Yorick  stood  for  a  moment  speechless, 
stung  by  the  insult.  Then  he  took  up  his  hat, 
excitedly,  and  left  the  dressing-room  without  a 
word. 

Some  of  the  other  members  of  the  company 
wondered  at  the  angry,  flushed  look  on  his  face 
when  he  hurried  through  the  corridor  to  the 
stage  door.  A  few  minutes  later  he  was  seen 
walking  down  the  street,  apparently  much  heated 
in  mind.  When  he  reached  a  certain  caf  6  he  went  in, 
sat  down,  and  called  for  whiskey.  He  remained 
alone  in  deep  thought,  mechanically  and  uncon- 
sciously answering  the  salutations  bestowed  upon 
him  by  two  or  three  acquaintances  who  strolled 
in.  Suddenly  he  nodded  thrice,  as  if  denoting  the 
acquiescence  of  his  judgment  in  some  plan  of 
action  formed  by  his  inventive  faculty.  He  rose 
quickly,  paid  his  bill  at  the  cashier's  desk,  and 

moved  rapidly  across  the  street  to  the  

Hotel.  Passing  in  through  a  broad  entrance,  he 

283 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

turned  aside  to  a  writing-room,  where,  without 
removing  his  soft  hat,  he  sat  down  at  a  desk. 

He  was  soon  immersed  in  the  composition  of  a 
letter,  which  caused  him  many  contractions  of  the 
brow,  many  lapses  during  which  he  abstractedly 
stared  at  vacancy,  many  fresh  beginnings,  and  the 
whole  of  the  two  hours  allowed  him  before  the 
evening's  performance  for  dinner. 

When  he  had  finished  the  letter,  he  carefully 
read  it,  and  made  a  few  corrections.  Then  he 
folded  it  up,  put  it  in  an  envelope,  and  placed  it 
unsealed  in  his  inside  coat  pocket.  He  arose  with 
an  expression  of  resolution  about  his  eyes  that 
was  quite  new  there. 

Ascertaining  by  the  clock  in  the  thronged  main 
corridor  that  the  time  was  ten  minutes  after 
seven,  the  old  man  rushed  into  the  cafe",  where 
he  devoured  hastily  a  chicken  croquette,  and 
swallowed  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  glass  of  whiskey 
before  starting  to  the  theatre.  He  was  in  his 
dressing-room  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  touching 
up  his  eyebrows,  when  Bridges  arrived.  A  cool 
greeting  passed  between  the  two. 

"  You  sent  the  note?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"  What  note?  "  gruffly  queried  Bridges,  taking 
off  his  coat. 

4<  To  that  girl." 

284 


"POOR   YORICK" 

"  Most  certainly." 

A  curious  look,  unobserved  by  Bridges,  shot 
from  Poor  Yorick's  eyes.  It  seemed  to  say, 
"  Wait,  things  may  happen  that  you're  not  looking 
for." 

At  about  the  time  when  Bridges  and  Yorick 
were  dressing  for  the  performance,  a  newspaper 
reporter,  wishing  to  make  a  few  notes  of  an  inter- 
view that  had  been  accorded  him  by  a  politician 
staying  in  the  hotel  at  which  the  old  man  had 
written  his  long  letter,  went  into  the  writing-room 
and  made  use  of  the  desk  where  the  actor  had  sat 
earlier  in  the  evening.  Several  sheets  of  blank 
paper  were  scattered  over  it.  One  of  them  con- 
tained almost  a  page  of  writing.  Yorick  had 
negligently  left  it  there.  It  was  a  beginning 
made  by  him  before  he  had  succeeded  in  obtaining 
a  satisfactory  wording  for  his  thoughts.  This 
rejected  opening  read: 

"Mv  DEAR,  FOOLISH  YOUNG  LADY:  —  Some- 
thing has  happened  which  prevents  Mr.  Bridges 
from  keeping  the  appointment  with  you,  and 
you're  much  better  off  on  that  account,  for  nothing 
but  unhappiness  can  come  to  you  if  you  allow 
yourself  to  be  carried  out  of  your  senses  by  your 
infatuation  for  a  man  who  has  neither  the  brains 

285 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

nor  the  manliness  which  he  seems  to  have  when 
playing  parts  that  call  for  the  mere  simulation  of 
these  gifts.  Never  make  an  appointment  with  a 
man  you  do  not  know,  especially  a  young  and  vain 
actor  who  has  once  got  the  worst  of  it  in  a  divorce 
suit.  You'll  be  thankful  some  day  for  this  advice, 
for  I  know  what  I  speak  of.  I  was  once,  years  ago, 
just  such  an  actor.  The  woman  got  into  all  sorts 
of  trouble  because  she  wrote  me  such  letters  as 
you  have  written  Bridges,  and  brought  to  an 
early  end  a  life  that  might  have  been  very  happy 
and  youthful.  Looked  like  you,  and  it  is  a  memory 
of  what  she  lost  and  suffered  that  makes  me  wish 
to  save  you.  My  dear  young  —  " 

There  were  yet  two  lines  to  spare  at  the  foot  of 
the  page.    The  newspaper  man,  interested  by  the 
fragment,  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 

When  Poor  Yorick  had  finished  his  final  scene 

in  the  comedy  at  the  Theatre  that  night, 

he  made  haste  to  dress  and  to  leave  the  playhouse. 
But  he  loitered  near  the  stage  entrance,  keeping  in 
the  shadow  on  the  other  side  of  the  alley,  out  of 
the  range  of  the  light  from  the  incandescent  globe 
over  the  door. 

Bridges  was  slightly  surprised,  on  returning  to 
his  dressing-room,  to  find  that  Yorick  had  already 

286 


"POOR   YORICK" 

gone.  But  he  attributed  this  to  the  ill  feeling  that 
had  arisen  on  account  of  the  intended  meeting 
with  the  girl  of  the  letters  and  the  box. 

The  leading  juvenile  attired  himself  for  the  con- 
quest carefully  but  rapidly.  When  he  was  ready 
he  surveyed  his  reflection  complacently  in  the  long 
mirror,  assuming  the  slightly  languid  look  that 
he  intended  to  maintain  during  the  first  half -hour 
of  the  supper.  He  retained  the  dress  suit  which 
he  wore  in  the  second  and  third  act  of  the  play, 
and  which  he  rarely  displayed  outside  of  the  thea- 
tre. He  flattered  himself  that  he  was  quite 
irresistible,  and  wondered  whether  she  would  take 
him  to  Delmonico's  or  to  some  quiet  little  place. 
He  indulged,  too,  in  some  vague  speculation  as  to 
what  the  supper  might  result  in.  The  girl  was 
evidently  of  a  rich  family,  but  her  people  would 
doubtless  never  hear  of  her  making  a  match  with 
him,  that  divorce  affair  being  in  recent  memory. 
A  marriage  was  probably  out  of  the  question. 
However,  the  girl  was  a  beauty  and  this  meeting 
was  at  least  worth  the  trouble.  So  he  donned  his 
coat  and  hat  and  swaggered  out  of  the  theatre. 
He  had  no  sooner  turned  from  the  alley  upon 
which  the  stage  door  opened  than  Yorick,  un- 
noticed by  him,  darted  out  in  pursuit.  Ten 
minutes'  walking  brought  the  leading  juvenile 

287 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

near  the  spot  where  he  was  to  be  awaited  by  the 
girl  in  the  cab.  Yorick,  whose  only  means  of 
ascertaining  the  place  of  meeting  was  to  follow 
Bridges,  kept  as  near  the  young  actor  as  was 
compatible  with  safety  from  discovery  by  the 
latter.  Bridges,  strutting  along  unconscious  of 
Yorick's  presence  a  few  yards  behind,  had  half- 
traversed  the  deserted  block  of  tall  brown  stone 
residences,  when  he  saw  a  cab  standing  at  the 
corner  ahead  of  him.  He  quickened  his  pace  in 
such  a  way  as  to  warn  the  old  man  that  the  event- 
ful moment  was  at  hand.  The  cab  stood  under 
an  electric  light  before  an  ivy-grown  church. 

Yorick,  with  noiseless  steps,  accelerated  his 
gait.  Bridges,  as  he  neared  the  cab,  deflected  his 
course  toward  the  curbstone  and  threw  his  head 
back  impressively.  This  little  action,  inter- 
preted rightly  by  the  pursuer,  was  the  old  man's 
cue.  Yorick  suddenly  rushed  forward  with  sur- 
prising agility. 

Before  Bridges  could  be  seen  by  the  occupant 
of  the  cab  for  which  he  was  making,  he  was  dazed 
by  a  blow  on  the  side  of  the  head,  just  beneath  the 
ear,  and  knocked  off  his  feet  by  a  sound  thump  on 
the  same  spot.  He  reeled,  clutched  at  the  air, 
and  fell  heavily  upon  the  sidewalk.  There  he  lay 
stunned  and  silent. 


"POOR   YORICK" 

Yorick,  not  waiting  to  see  what  became  of  the 
man  whom  he  had  felled,  dashed  forward  to  the 
cab.  Opening  the  door,  he  caught  a  momentary 
vision  of  a  white,  round  face,  with  big,  scared  eyes, 
above  a  palpitating  mass  of  soft  silk  and  fur,  and 
against  a  black  background.  He  thrust  toward 
her  the  letter,  which  he  had  quickly  drawn  from 
his  pocket,  and  whispered,  huskily: 

"  Mr.  Bridges  couldn't  come.    Here's  a  note." 

Then  he  slammed  the  cab  door,  and  called  out 
in  a  commanding  tone : 

"  Drive  on  there!    Quick!" 

The  cabman,  who  had  evidently  received 
directions  in  advance  from  the  girl,  jerked  his 
reins,  and  the  cab  moved  forward,  turned,  and 
rattled  away,  the  horse  at  a  brisk  trot. 

Yorick  speedily  left  the  scene.  At  the  next 
corner  he  met  a  policeman,  to  whom  he  said : 

'  There's  a  man  lying  on  the  sidewalk  back 
there  by  the  church.  I  don't  know  whether  he's 
drunk  or  not." 

He  was  off  before  the  officer  could  detain  him. 

Bridges  spent  the  night  in  a  station-house, 
recovering  from  the  effects  of  a  fall,  which  the 
police  attributed  to  drunkenness.  Assuming  that 
he  had  received  his  blows  from  some  masculine 
relative  or  admirer  of  the  girl,  he  gave  a  false 

289 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

account  of  the  bruises  when  the  next  night  he 
asked  the  manager  for  a  few  nights  of  rest  and 
enabled  his  understudy  to  obtain  a  chance  long 
coveted. 

The  leading  juvenile  manifestly  thought  best  not 
to  attempt  a  renewal  of  a  flirtation  with  a  young 
woman  who  had  so  formidable  a  protector;  and 
the  girl  herself,  whatever  became  of  her,  addressed 
him  no  more  epistles  of  adoration,  or  of  any  sort 
whatever. 

Yorick  got  from  the  stage  manager  permission 
to  change  his  dressing-room.  Thereafter  he  and 
Bridges  maintained  a  mutual  coolness,  until  one 
day  the  leading  juvenile,  warmed  by  cocktails, 
melted,  and  addressed  the  old  man  familiarly  by 
his  nickname. 

"  Old  fellow,"  said  Bridges,  over  a  cafe"  table, 
"  when  I  come  to  play  Hamlet,  I'll  send  for  you 
to  act  Poor  Yorick.  You'd  do  it  well.  You're 
always  best,  you  know,  in  parts  that  don't  require 
you  to  come  on  the  stage  at  all." 

The  old  man  smiled  grimly  and  then  shrugged 
his  shoulders  at  this  pleasantry.  When  he  died 
the  other  day,  he  left  a  curious  will,  in  which, 
after  naming  several  insignificant  legacies,  he 
bequeathed  his  skull  "  to  a  so-called  actor,  one 


290 


"POOR   YORICK" 

Charles  Bridges,  to  be  used  by  him  in  the  grave- 
yard scene  when  he  shall  have  become  able  to  play 
Hamlet,  —  if  the  skull  be  not  disintegrated  by  that 
time." 


291 


COINCIDENCE 


XXIII 

COINCIDENCE 

MAX  took  us  down  into  a  German  place  into 
the  bowels  of  the  earth.  It  was  a  bit  of  Berlin 
transplanted  to  Philadelphia  and  thriving  be- 
neath a  Teutonic  eating-house.  Imagine  a  great 
cellar,  with  stone  floor,  ornamented  ceiling,  mass- 
ive rectangular  pillars  of  brown  wood,  sub- 
stantial tables,  heavy  mediaeval  chairs,  crossbeams 
bearing  pictures  of  peasant  girls  and  lettered 
with  sentiments  of  good  cheer  in  German,  and 
walls  covered  with  beer-mugs  of  every  size  and 
device. 

Scores  of  men  sat  talking  at  the  tables,  smoking, 
devouring  sandwiches,  upturning  their  mugs  of 
beer  over  the  capacious  receptacles  provided  by 
nature. 

The  mediaeval  chairs  appealed  to  the  romanti- 
cism that  lies  beneath  Breffny's  satirical  exterior ; 
and  when  Max  called  our  attention  to  the  fact 

295 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

that  the  mugs  of  beer  came  through  apertures 
from  caves  beneath  the  street,  we  were  con- 
tent. 

For  the  hour,  the  problem  of  human  happiness 
was  solved  for  us  three  by  three  foaming  mugs, 
three  sandwiches,  and  tobacco. 

Here  communed  we  three,  blown  from  various 
winds,  to  this  local  Bohemia :  Max,  native  of  the 
free  German  City  of  Frankfort,  operatic  manager 
in  Rio  Janeiro,  musician  in  New  York,  Denver 
resident  by  adoption,  Philadelphia  newspaperman 
by  preference ;  Breffny,  born  in  a  Spanish  village, 
reared  in  Continental  countries,  professedly  an 
Irishman,  but  more  than  half -Latin  in  tempera- 
ment and  appearance,  a  cyclopedia  for  the  benefit 
of  his  friends,  and  myself. 

The  talk  ran  to  the  imposture  recently  at- 
tempted by  young  Mr.  Herdling,  who  claimed 
that  the  dead  body  found  at  Tarrytown  was 
that  of  his  wife. 

"  A  very  touching  fake,"  said  Max. 

'  Yes;  thanks  to  the  skill  of  the  reporters  who 
wrote  up  his  story,"  cried  Breffny. 

"  We  visited  many  morgues  in  search  of  her, 
Louise  and  I,"  said  I,  quoting  the  most  effective 
passage  of  the  narrative. 

"  I  did  know  of  one  case  of  a  husband  starting 
296 


COINCIDENCE 

off  at  random  to  find  his  runaway  wife,"  observed 
Breffny. 

"  As  there's  yet  an  hour  to  midnight,  we  have 
time  for  one  of  your  stories." 

"  I  can  tell  this  in  five  minutes.  All  I  know  of 
the  story  is  the  beginning.  No  one  ever  heard  of 
the  end.  It  was  like  this : 

"  When  I  lived  in  Glasgow,  I  knew  a  young 
fellow  there  who  was  timekeeper  in  a  shipyard. 
He  was  a  very  quiet,  pleasant  boy,  so  bashful  that 
I  used  to  wonder  how  he  had  ever  summoned  the 
courage  to  propose  to  the  pretty  Scotch  girl  who 
was  his  wife.  As  I  got  to  know  more  of  the  pair, 
I  divined  the  secret.  Although  poor,  he  was  of 
good  Glasgow  parentage,  while  the  wife  had  been 
a  country  girl  so  eager  to  get  to  the  city  that  she 
had  courted  him  while  he  was  on  a  visit  to  the 
village  in  which  she  had  lived.  She  had  merely 
used  him  as  a  means  for  finding  the  life  for  which 
she  had  longed. 

"  How  much  he  really  loved  her  was  never  sus- 
pected until  he  came  home  one  evening  and  found 
that  she  had  run  away  with  the  youngest  son  of 
one  of  the  proprietors  of  the  shipyard. 

"  He  learned  within  a  week  that  they  had  sailed 


297 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

for  America.  He  packed  a  valise,  took  the  money 
that  he  had  saved,  and  started  out. 

"  '  But  where  are  you  going  to  look  for  them? ' 
I  asked  him. 

"  '  To  America,'  he  said,  turning  toward  me, 
his  face  drawn  and  gaunt  with  the  grief  that  he 
had  survived. 

"  '  But  America  is  a  vast  country.' 

'"  I  will  hunt  tiU  I  find  her.' 

"  '  And  when  you  find  her  —  you  will  not  kill 
her,  surely! ' 

"  '  I  will  try  to  get  her  to  come  back  to  me.' 

"  He  took  passage  in  the  steerage,  and  I  do  not 
know  what  happened  to  him  after  that." 

Each  of  us  hid  his  emotions  in  his  beer-mug. 
Then  Max  ordered  fresh  mugs,  and  said  that 
Breffny's  story  recalled  a  somewhat  similar  thing 
that  he  had  witnessed  in  Denver. 

"  When  I  was  a  reporter  out  there,  I  was  stand- 
ing one  evening  in  front  of  a  hotel.  A  crowd  col- 
lected to  see  the  body  of  a  guest  brought  out  and 
placed  upon  an  ambulance. 

'  Where  are  you  taking  him,  and  what  is  it? ' 
I  asked  the  driver. 

'  To  the  lazaretto.    Smallpox.' 
298 


COINCIDENCE 

"  For  a  moment,  while  he  was  being  lifted  into 
the  ambulance,  the  victim's  face  was  visible.  A 
loud  cry  was  heard  in  the  crowd.  It  came  from  a 
ragged,  wild-looking  man,  whose  unkempt  beard 
made  him  look  much  older  than  I  afterward  found 
him  to  be.  As  the  ambulance  hurried  off,  he  ran 
after  it,  shouting: 

"  '  I  must  see  that  man!  Stop!  I  must  ask 
him  something! ' 

"  But  he  tripped  upon  a  horse-car  track,  and 
when  he  had  staggered  to  his  feet,  the  ambulance 
was  out  of  sight. 

"  I  ran  into  the  hotel  and  asked  the  clerk  about 
the  lazaretto  patient.  He  was  a  young  European 
—  an  Englishman  —  they  thought,  who  had 
arrived  from  the  East  two  days  ago,  and  whose 
condition  had  just  been  discovered. 

"  Coming  out,  I  went  to  the  tramp  who  had 
cried  out  at  the  sight  of  the  ill  man.  I  found  him 
seated  on  the  curbstone,  weeping  like  a  child.  I 
asked  him  why  he  wished  to  see  the  smallpox 
victim,  and  said  that  I  could  get  him  admission  to 
the  lazaretto,  if  he  would  tell  me  what  he  knew, 
and  wouldn't  let  any  other  reporter  have  the 
story. 

"  He  jumped  up  eagerly. 

"  '  It's  this,'  he  said.  '  That  man  ran  away  with 
299 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

my  wife,  and  I've  hunted  them  over  sea  and  land. 
This  is  the  first  sight  I've  had  of  him.' 

"  '  Then,'  I  said,  '  if  you  mean  to  harm  him,  I'm 
afraid  I  can't  bring  you  to  him.' 

"  '  Him!  '  said  the  ragged  man,  disdainfully. 
'  I  don't  want  to  hurt  him.  I  only  want  to  find 
out  where  she  is.  I  swear  I  wouldn't  harm  either 
of  them/ 

"  I  accompanied  him  to  the  city  physician,  with 
whom  he  had  a  long  talk.  That  official  finally 
promised  to  take  him  to  the  lazaretto.  The 
doctor  led  the  man  to  the  side  of  the  iron  bed 
where  the  smallpox  patient  lay.  The  latter 
started  like  a  frightened  child  at  sight  of  his 
pursuer. 

'  Remember,'  said  the  doctor  to  the  sick  man, 
'  you  have  scarcely  a  chance  for  life.  You  would 
do  well  to  tell  the  truth.' 

1  Only  tell  me  where  she  is,'  pleaded  the  hus- 
band, '  and  I'll  forgive  you  all.' 
'  The  sick  man  gasped : 

'  I  left  her  in  Philadelphia  —  at  the  station. 
She  had  smallpox.  It  was  from  her  I  got  it.  I 
was  a  coward  —  a  cur.  I  left  her  to  save  myself. 
The  money  I  had  brought  from  home  was  nearly 
all  gone.  Ask  her  to  forgive  me.' 

"  He  was  dead  that  evening.    The  husband  was 
300 


COINCIDENCE 

then  upon  an  east-bound  freight-train.  The 
newspaper  telegraphed  to  Philadelphia,  but  noth- 
ing could  be  found  out  about  the  woman.  I've 
often  wondered  what  became  of  the  man." 

The  loud  hubbub  of  conversation,  —  nearly 
all  in  German,  —  the  shouts  of  the  waiters,  the 
noise  of  their  footfalls  upon  the  stone  floor,  the 
sound  of  mugs  being  placed  upon  tables  and  of 
Max  draining  his  "  stein  "  of  beer,  bridged  the 
hiatus  between  the  ending  of  Max's  narrative  and 
the  beginning  of  my  own : 

"  Your  story  reminds  me  of  one  to  which  the 
city  editor  assigned  me  on  one  of  my  '  late  nights.' 
I  took  a  cab  and  went  to  the  station-house.  The 
case  had  been  reported  by  a  policeman  at  Ninth 
and  Locust  Streets,  who  had  called  for  a  patrol- 
wagon.  From  him  I  got  the  story.  He  had  seen 
the  thing  happen. 

"  He  was  walking  down  Locust  at  half-past 
twelve  that  night,  and  was  opposite  the  Midnight 
Mission,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  to  the 
only  two  persons  who  were  at  that  moment  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  One  was  a  man  of  the 
appearance  of  a  vagabond,  coming  from  Ninth 
Street.  The  other  was  a  woman,  who  had  come 

301 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

from  Tenth  Street,  and  who  seemed  to  walk  with 
great  difficulty,  as  if  ready  to  sink  at  every  step 
from  weakness. 

"  The  woman  dropped  her  head  as  she  neared 
the  man.  The  man  peered  into  her  face,  in  the 
manner  of  one  who  had  acquired  the  habit  of  ex- 
amining the  countenances  of  passers-by. 

"  The  two  met  under  the  gas-lamp  that  is  so 
conspicuous  a  night  feature  of  the  north  side  of 
Locust  Street,  between  Ninth  and  Tenth. 

"  The  woman  gave  no  attention  to  the  man. 
So  exhausted  was  she  that  she  leaned  helplessly 
against  the  fence.  The  man  ran  forward,  shrieking 
like  a  lunatic. 

"'  Jeannie!' 

"  The  woman  lifted  her  eyes  in  a  dull  kind  of 
amazement  and  whispered: 

"'Donald!' 

"  She  fell  back,  but  he  caught  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  lips  a  dozen  times,  with  a  half- 
savage  gladness,  crying  and  laughing  hysterically, 
as  women  do. 

"  When  the  policeman  had  reached  the  pair,  the 
woman  had  seen  the  last  of  this  world. 

"  Afterward  we  found  that  she  had  been  dis- 
charged from  the  municipal  hospital,  where  she 
had  been  in  the  smallpox  ward  two  weeks  before ; 

302 


COINCIDENCE 

and  we  surmised  that  she  had  virtually  had  noth- 
ing to  eat  since  then. 

"  At  the  station-house  the  man  explained  that 
the  woman  was  his  runaway  wife.  He  had  started 
in  search  of  her  two  years  before,  with  no  other 
clue  as  to  her  whereabouts  than  the  knowledge 
that  she  had  sailed  for  America  with  a  man  named 
Ferriss  —  " 

"  What?  "  cried  Max.  "  Was  the  name  Archi- 
bald Ferriss?  That  was  the  name  of  the  man  who 
died  in  the  Denver  lazaretto  —  " 

But  Max  was  stopped  by  Breffny,  who  almost 
shouted  in  excitement : 

"  And  the  name  of  the  son  of  McKeown  & 
Ferriss,  of  Glasgow,  in  whose  shipyard  was  em- 
ployed as  timekeeper  the  Donald  Wilson  —  " 

"  Donald  Wilson  was  the  name  of  the  man  who 
met  his  wife  that  night  in  front  of  the  Midnight 
Mission,"  said  I,  in  further  confirmation. 

It  was  remarkable.  One  of  the  three  chapters 
of  this  tragic  story  had  entered  into  the  experi- 
ence of  each  of  us  three  who  sat  there  emptying 
stone  mugs.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  was  the 
story  complete  to  each  of  us. 

"  But  what  became  of  the  man? "  asked 
Breffny. 

303 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

"  When  the  police  lieutenant  spoke  of  having 
her  body  interred  in  Potter's  Field,  the  husband 
spoke  up  indignantly.  He  brought  forth  two  gold 
pieces,  saying: 

"  '  I  have  the  money  for  her  grave.  I  saved  this 
through  all  my  wanderings,  because  I  thought 
that  when  I  should  find  her  she  might  be  homeless 
and  hungry  and  in  need.' 

"  So  he  had  her  buried  respectably  in  the  sub- 
urbs somewhere,  and  I  was  too  busy  at  that  time 
to  follow  up  his  subsequent  movements.  It  is 
enough  for  the  story  that  he  found  his  wife." 


304 


NEWGAG  THE   COMEDIAN 


XXIV 

NEWGAG   THE    COMEDIAN 

IT  was  not  his  real  name  or  his  stage  name,  but 
it  was  the  one  under  which  he  was  best  known  by 
those  who  best  knew  him.  It  had  been  thrown  at 
him  in  a  cafe  one  night  by  a  newspaper  man  after 
the  performance,  and  had  clung  to  him.  Its 
significance  lay  in  the  fact  that  his  "  gags  "  — 
supposedly  comic  things  said  by  presumably 
comic  men  in  nominal  opera  or  burlesque  —  in- 
variably were  old.  The  man  who  bestowed  the 
title  upon  him  thought  it  a  fine  bit  of  irony. 

Newgag  received  it  without  expressed  resent- 
ment, but  without  mirth,  and  he  bore  its  repetition 
patiently  as  seasons  went  by.  He  was  accustomed 
to  enduring  calmly  the  jests,  the  indignities  that 
were  elicited  by  his  peculiar  appearance,  his  dole- 
ful expression,  his  slow  and  bungling  speech  and 
movement,  his  diffident  manner. 

He  was  one  of  the  forbearing  men,  the  many 
307 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

who  are  doomed  to  continual  suffering  of  a  kind 
that  their  sensitiveness  and  timidity  make  it  the 
more  difficult  for  them  to  bear. 

Undying  ambition  burned  beneath  his  unde- 
monstrative surface;  dauntless  courage  lay  under 
his  lack  of  ability. 

He  was  an  extremely  spare  man,  of  extraordi- 
nary height,  and  the  bend  of  his  shoulders  gave 
to  his  small  head  a  comical  thrust  forward.  His 
black  hair  was  without  curl,  and  it  would  tolerate 
no  other  arrangement  than  being  combed  back 
straight.  It  was  allowed  to  grow  downward  until 
it  scraped  the  back  of  Newgag's  collar,  a  device 
for  concealing  the  meagreness  of  his  neck. 

He  had  a  smooth,  pale  face,  slanting  from  ears 
to  nose  like  a  wedge,  and  the  dimness  of  the  blue 
eyes  added  to  its  introspective  cast.  He  blushed, 
as  a  rule,  when  he  met  new  acquaintances  or  was 
addressed  suddenly.  He  had  a  gloomy  look  and  a 
hesitating  way  of  speech.  An  amusing  spectacle 
was  his  mechanical-looking  smile,  which,  when  he 
became  conscious  of  it,  passed  through  several 
stages  expressive  of  embarrassment  until  his 
normal  mournful  aspect  was  reached. 

As  he  usually  appeared  in  a  sack  coat  when  off 
the  stage,  the  length  of  his  legs  was  divertingly 
emphasized.  After  the  fashion  of  great  actors  of 

308 


NEWGAG   THE   COMEDIAN 

a  bygone  generation,  he  wore  a  soft  black  felt  hat, 
dinged  in  the  crown  from  front  to  rear. 

He  had  entered  "  the  profession  "  from  the 
amateur  stage,  by  way  of  the  comic  opera  chorus, 
and  to  that  chance  was  due  his  being  located  in 
the  comic  opera  wing  of  the  great  histrionic 
edifice.  He  had  originally  preferred  tragedy,  but 
the  first  consideration  was  the  getting  upon  the 
stage  by  any  means.  Having  industriously  worked 
his  way  out  of  the  chorus,  he  had  been  reconciled 
by  habit  to  his  environment,  and  had  come  to 
aspire  to  eminence  therein.  He  had  reached  the 
standing  of  a  secondary  comedian,  —  that  is  to 
say,  a  man  playing  secondary  comic  roles  in  the 
pieces  for  which  he  is  cast.  He  was  useful  in  such 
companies  as  were  directly  or  indirectly  con- 
trolled by  their  leading  comedians,  for  there  never 
could  be  any  fears  of  his  outshining  those  auto- 
cratic personages.  Only  in  his  wildest  hopes  did 
he  ever  look  upon  the  centre  of  the  stage  as  a  spot 
possible  for  him  to  attain. 

His  means  of  evoking  laughter  upon  the  stage 
were  laborious  on  his  part  and  mystifying  to  the 
thoughtful  observer.  He  took  noticeable  means 
to  change  from  his  real  self.  It  mattered  not 
what  was  the  nature  of  the  part  he  filled,  he  in- 
variably assumed  an  unnatural,  rasping  voice; 

309 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

he  stretched  his  mouth  to  its  utmost  reach  and 
lowered  the  extremities  of  his  lips;  he  turned  his 
toes  inward  (naturally  his  feet  described  an 
abnormal  angle)  and  bowed  his  arms.  Brought 
up  in  the  school  which  teaches  that  to  make  others 
laugh  one  must  never  smile  one's  self,  he  wore  a 
grotesquely  lugubrious  and  changeless  counte- 
nance. Such  was  Newgag  in  his  every  impersona- 
tion. When  he  thought  he  was  funniest,  he  ap- 
peared to  be  in  most  pain  and  was  most  depress- 
ing. 

"  My  methods  are  legitimate,"  he  would  say, 
when  he  had  enlisted  one's  attention  and  apparent 
admiration  across  a  table  bearing  beer-bottles  and 
sandwiches.  '  The  people  want  horse-play  now- 
adays. But  when  I've  got  to  descend  to  that  sort 
of  thing,  I'll  go  to  the  variety  stage  or  circus  ring 
at  once  —  or  quit." 

'  That's  a  happy  thought,  old  man,"  said  a 
comedian  of  the  younger  school,  one  night,  when 
Newgag  had  uttered  his  wonted  speech.  "  Why 
don't  you  quit?  " 

Such  a  speech  sufficed  to  rob  Newgag  of  his 
self-possession  and  to  reduce  him  to  silence.  He 
could  not  cope  with  easy,  offhand,  impromptu 
jesters.  In  truth,  no  one  tried  more  than  Newgag 
to  excel  in  "  horse-play,"  but  his  temperament  or 

310 


NEWGAG   THE    COMEDIAN 

his  training  did  not  equip  him  for  excelling  in  it ; 
he  defended  the  monotony,  emptiness,  and  toil- 
someness  of  his  humour  on  the  ground  that  it  was 
"  legitimate." 

One  night  Newgag  drank  two  glasses  of  beer  in 
rapid  succession  and  looked  at  me  with  a  touching 
countenance. 

"  Old  boy,"  he  said,  in  his  homely  drawl,  "I'm 
discouraged!  I  begin  to  think  I'm  not  in  it!  " 

"  Why,  what's  wrong?  " 

"  Well,  I've  dropped  to  the  fact  that,  after  all 
these  years  in  the  business,  I  can't  make  them 
laugh." 

I  was  just  about  to  say,  "  So  you've  just 
awakened  to  that? "  but  pity  and  politeness 
deterred  me.  Every  one  else  had  known  it,  all 
these  years.  Newgag,  to  be  sure,  should  naturally 
have  been,  as  he  was,  the  last  to  discover  it. 

Newgag  thus  went  one  step  further  than  any 
comedian  I  have  ever  known.  Having  detected 
his  inability  to  amuse  audiences,  he  confessed  it. 

People  who  know  actors  and  read  this  will  al- 
ready have  said  that  it  is  a  fiction,  and  that  New- 
gag's  admission  is  false  to  life.  Not  so;  I  am 
writing  not  about  comedians  in  general,  but  about 
Newgag. 

That  he  had  come  to  so  exceptional  a  concession 
311 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

marked  the  depth  of  his  despair.    I  tried  to  cheer 
him. 

"  Nonsense,  my  boy!  They  give  you  bad  parts. 
Go  out  of  comic  opera.  Try  tragedy." 

I  had  spoken  innocently  and  sincerely,  but 
Newgag  thought  I  was  jesting.  Instead  of  his 
usual  attempt  at  lofty  callousness,  however,  he 
smiled  that  dismal,  marionette-like  smile  of  his. 
That  gave  me  an  idea,  of  which  I  said  nothing  at 
the  time. 

Several  months  afterward,  a  manager,  who  is  a 
friend  of  mine,  was  suddenly  plunged  in  distress 
because  of  the  serious  illness  of  an  actor  who  was 
to  fill  a  part  in  a  new  American  comedy  that  the 
manager  was  to  produce  on  the  next  night. 

"  What  on  earth  shall  I  do?  "  he  asked. 

"  Play  the  part  yourself,  as  Hoyt  does  in  such 
an  emergency  —  or  get  Newgag." 

"  Who's  Newgag?  " 

"  He's  a  friend  of  mine,  out  of  a  position.  I 
met  him  to-day  very  much  frayed." 

"  Bring  him  to  me." 

Newgag  was  overwhelmed  when  I  told  him  of 
the  opportunity. 

"  I  never  acted  in  straight  comedy,"  he  said. 
"I  can't  do  it.  I  might  as  well 'try  to  play 
Juliet." 

312 


NEWGAG   THE   COMEDIAN 

"  He  wants  you  only  to  speak  the  lines,  that's 
all.  You're  a  quick  study,  you  know.  Come  on!  " 

I  had  almost  to  drag  the  man  to  the  manager. 
He  allowed  himself,  in  a  semistupefied  condition, 
to  be  engaged.  He  took  the  part,  sat  up  all  night 
in  his  boarding-house  and  learned  it,  went  to 
rehearsal  almost  letter-perfect  in  the  morning,  and 
nervously  prepared  to  face  the  ordeal  of  the  eve- 
ning. 

At  six  o'clock,  he  wished  to  go  to  the  manager 
and  give  up  the  part. 

"  I  can  never  do  it,"  he  wailed  to  me.  "  I 
haven't  had  time  to  form  a  conception  of  it  and 
to  get  up  byplay.  You  see,  it's  an  eccentric  char- 
acter part,  —  a  man  from  the  country  whom 
everybody  takes  for  a  fool,  but  who  shows  up 
strong  at  the  last.  I  can't  —  " 

"  Oh,  don't  act  it.  You're  only  engaged  in  the 
emergency,  you  know.  Simply  go  on  and  say 
your  lines  and  come  off." 

"  That's  all  I  can  do,"  he  said,  with  a  dubious 
shake  of  the  head.  "  If  only  I'd  had  time  to  study 
it!" 

American  plays  had  taken  foothold,  and  this 
premier  of  a  new  one  by  an  author  of  two  previous 
successes  drew  a  "  typical  first  night  audience." 
Newgag,  having  abandoned  all  idea  of  making  a 

313 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

hit,  or  of  acting  the  part  any  further  than  the  mere 
delivery  of  the  speeches  went,  was  no  longer  in- 
ordinately nervous.  When  he  first  entered  he  was 
a  trifle  frightened,  and  his  unavoidable  lack  of 
prepared  stage  business  made  him  awkward  and 
embarrassed  for  a  time.  The  awkwardness  re- 
mained, but  the  embarrassment  eventually  passed 
away.  He  spoke  in  his  natural  voice  and  retained 
his  actual  manner.  When  the  action  required  him 
to  laugh,  he  did  so,  exhibiting  his  characteristic 
perfunctory  smile. 

He  received  a  special  call  before  the  curtain  after 
the  third  act.  He  had  no  thought  that  it  was 
meant  for  him  until  the  stage  manager  pushed 
him  out  from  the  wings.  He  came  back  looking 
distressed. 

"  Are  they  guying  me?  "  he  asked  the  stage 
manager. 

The  papers  agreed  the  next  day  that  one  of  the 
hits  of  the  performance  was  made  by  Newgag  "  in 
an  odd  part  which  he  had  conceived  in  a  strikingly 
original  way,  and  impersonated  with  wonderful 
finish  and  subtle  drollery." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "    he  gasped. 

I  enlightened  him. 

"  My  boy,  you  simply  played  yourself.  Did  it 
never  occur  to  you  that  in  your  own  person  you're 

314 


NEWGAG   THE    COMEDIAN 

unconsciously  one  of  the  drollest  men  I  ever  saw?  " 

"But  I  didn't  act!" 

"  You  didn't.    And  take  my  advice  —  don't!  " 

And  he  doesn't.  Upon  the  reputation  of  his 
success  in  that  comedy  he  arranged  with  another 
manager  to  appear  in  a  play  especially  written  for 
him.  He  is  a  prosperous  star  now.  Whatever  his 
play  or  part  he  always  presents  the  same  person- 
ality on  the  stage  and  he  has  made  that  personality 
dear  to  many  theatre-goers.  He  does  not  appear 
too  frequently  or  too  long  in  any  one  place ;  hence 
he  is  warmly  welcomed  wherever  and  whenever 
he  returns.  He  is  classed  among  leading  actors, 
and  the  ordinary  person  does  not  stop  sufficiently 
long  to  observe  that  he  is  no  actor  at  all. 

"  This  isn't  exactly  art,"  he  said  to  me,  the 
other  night,  with  a  tinge  of  self -rebuke.  "  But 
it's  success." 

And  the  history  of  Newgag  is  the  history  of 
many. 


315 


AN  OPERATIC  EVENING 


XXV 

AN   OPERATIC   EVENING 
I 

A  Desperate  Youth 

THE  second  act  of  "  William  Tell  "  had  ended 
at  the  Grand  Opera  House.  The  incandescent 
lights  of  ceiling  and  proscenium  flashed  up, 
showering  radiance  upon  the  vast  surface  of 
summer  costumes  and  gay  faces  in  the  auditorium. 
The  audience,  relieved  of  the  stress  of  attention, 
became  audible  in  a  great  composite  of  chatter. 
A  host  streamed  along  the  aisles  into  the  wide 
lobbies,  and  thence  its  larger  part  jostled  through 
the  front  doors  to  the  brilliantly  illuminated  vesti- 
bule. Many  passed  on  into  the  wide  sidewalk, 
where  the  electric  light  poured  its  rays  upon  count- 
less promenaders  whose  footfalls  incessantly  beat 
upon  the  aural  sense.  Scores  of  bicyclists  of  both 
sexes  sped  over  the  asphalt  up  and  down,  some 

319 


TALES   FROM    BOHEMIA 

now  and  then  deviating  to  make  way  for  a  lumber- 
ing yellow  'bus  or  a  hurrying  carriage. 

Men  and  women,  young  people  composing  the 
majority,  strolled  to  and  fro  in  the  roomy  lobby 
that  environs  the  auditorium  on  all  sides  save 
that  of  the  stage.  A  group  of  enthusiasts  stood  be- 
tween the  rear  door  of  the  box-office  and  the 
wide  entrance  to  the  long  middle  aisle. 

"  How  magnificently  Guille  held  that  last 
note!" 

"  What  good  taste  and  artistic  sense  Madame 
Kronoldhas!" 

"  Del  Puente  hasn't  been  in  better  voice  in 
years." 

"  But  you  know,  Mademoiselle  Islar  is  de- 
cidedly a  lyric  soprano." 

These  were  some  of  the  scraps  of  the  conversa- 
tion of  that  group.  A  lithe,  athletic-looking  man 
of  thirty  stood  mechanically  listening  to  them,  as 
he  stroked  his  black  moustache.  He  was  in 
summer  attire,  evidently  disdaining  conventionali- 
ties, preferring  comfort. 

Suddenly  losing  interest  in  the  conversation  in 
his  vicinity,  he  started  toward  the  Montgomery 
Avenue  side  of  the  lobby,  with  the  apparent  in- 
tention of  breathing  some  outside  air  at  one  of  the 
wide-barred  exits,  where  children  stood  looking 

320 


AN   OPERATIC   EVENING 

in  from  the  sidewalk,  and  catching  what  glimpses 
they  could  of  the  audience  through  the  doorways  in 
the  glass  partition  bounding  the  auditorium. 

He  by  chance  cast  his  glance  up  the  unused 
staircase  leading  to  the  balcony  from  the  northern 
part  of  the  lobby.  He  saw  upon  the  third  step  a 
young  woman  in  a  dark  flannel  outing-dress,  her 
face  concealed  by  a  veil.  She  seemed  to  be  watch- 
ing some  one  among  those  who  stood  or  moved 
near  the  Montgomery  Avenue  exits,  which  had 
wire  barriers. 

"  By  Jove!  "  he  said,  within  himself,  "  surely 
I  know  that  figure!  But  I  thought  she  had  gone 
to  the  Catskills,  and  I  never  supposed  her  capable 
of  wearing  negligee  clothes  at  the  theatre.  There 
can  be  no  mistaking  that  wrist,  though,  or  that 
turn  of  the  shoulders." 

He  stepped  softly  to  her  side  and  lightly  touched 
one  of  the  admired  shoulders. 

She  turned  quickly  and  suppressed  an  excla- 
mation ere  it  was  half -uttered. 

"Why,  Harry  —  Doctor  Haslam,  I  mean! 
How  did  you  know  it  was  I?  " 

"Why,  Amy  —  that  is  to  say,  Miss  Winnett! 
What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here?  Pardon  the 
question,  but  I  thought  you  were  on  the  moun- 
tains. I'm  all  the  more  glad  to  see  you." 

321 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

While  he  pressed  her  hand  she  looked  search- 
ingly  into  his  eyes,  a  fact  of  which  he  was  conscious 
despite  her  veil. 

"I'm  not  here  —  as  far  as  my  people  may 
know.  I'm  at  the  Catskills  with  my  cousins  — 
except  to  my  cousins  themselves.  To  them  I've 
come  back  home  for  a  week's  conference  with  my 
dressmaker.  Our  house  isn't  entirely  closed  up, 
you  know.  Aunt  Rachel  likes  the  hot  weather  of 
Philadelphia  all  summer  through,  and  she's  still 
here.  When  I  arrived  here  this  morning,  I  told 
her  the  dressmaker  story.  She  retires  at  eight 
and  she  thinks  I'm  in  bed  too.  But  I'm  here, 
and  nobody  suspects  it  but  you  and  Mary,  the 
servant  at  home,  who  knows  where  I've  come,  and 
who's  to  stay  up  for  me  till  I  return  to-night. 
That's  all  of  it,  and  now,  as  you're  a  friend  of 
mine,  you  mustn't  tell  any  one,  will  you?  " 

"  But  I  know  nothing  to  tell,"  said  the  bewil- 
dered doctor.  "  What  does  all  this  subterfuge, 
this  mystery  mean?  " 

Amy  Winnett  considered  silently  for  a  moment, 
while  Doctor  Haslam  mentally  admired  the  slim, 
well-rounded  figure,  the  graceful  poise  of  the  little 
head  with  its  mass  of  brown  hair  beneath  a  sailor 
hat  of  the  style  that  "  came  in  "  with  this  summer. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  all,"  she  answered, 
322 


AN   OPERATIC   EVENING 

presently.  "  I  may  need  your  assistance,  too.  I 
can  rely  upon  you?  " 

"  Through  fire  and  water." 

"I've  come  to  Philadelphia  to  prevent  a  sui- 
cide." 

"  Good  gracious!  " 

"  Yes.  You  see,  I've  broken  the  engagement 
between  me  and  Tom  Appleton." 

"  What!    You  don't  mean  it?  " 

There  was  a  striking  note  of  jubilation  in  the 
doctor's  interruption.  Miss  Winnett  made  no 
comment  thereupon,  but  continued: 

"  I  finally  decided  that  I  didn't  care  as  much 
for  Tom  as  I'd  thought  I  did,  and  then  I  had  a 
suspicion  —  but  I  won't  mention  that  —  " 

"  No,  you  needn't.  Your  fortune  —  pardon 
me,  I  simply  took  the  privilege  of  an  old  friend 
who  had  himself  been  rejected  by  you.  Go  on." 

"  Don't  interrupt  again.  As  I  said,  I  concluded 
that  I  couldn't  be  Tom's  wife,  and  I  told  him  so. 
He  went  to  the  Catskills  when  we  went,  you 
know,  as  he  thought  he  could  keep  up  his  law 
studies  as  well  there  as  here.  You  can't  imagine 
how  he  took  it.  I'd  never  before  known  how 
much  he  —  he  really  wished  to  marry  me.  But  I 
was  unflinching,  and  at  last  he  left  me,  vowing 
that  he  would  return  to  Philadelphia  and  commit 

323 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

suicide.  He  swore  a  terrible  oath  that  my  next 
message  from  him  would  be  found  in  his  hands 
after  his  death.  And  he  set  to-night  as  the  time 
for  the  deed." 

"  But  why  couldn't  he  have  done  it  there  and 
then?" 

"  How  hard-hearted  you  are!  Probably  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  put  his  affairs  in  order  before 
putting  an  end  to  his  life." 

She  spoke  in  all  seriousness.  Doctor  Haslam 
succeeded  with  difficulty  in  restraining  a  smile. 

"  You  don't  imagine  for  a  moment,"  he  said, 
"  that  the  young  man  intended  keeping  his  oath." 

"  Don't  I?  You  should  have  seen  the  look  on 
his  face  when  he  spoke  it." 

"  Well?  " 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  sleep  with  the  thought  that 
a  man  was  going  to  kill  himself  on  my  account. 
It  makes  me  shudder.  I'd  see  his  face  in  my 
dreams  every  night  of  my  life.  Then  if  a  note 
were  really  found  in  his  hands,  addressed  to  me, 
the  whole  thing  would  come  out  in  the  news- 
papers, and  wouldn't  that  be  horrible?  Of  course 
I  couldn't  tell  my  cousins  anything  about  his 
threat,  so  I  invented  my  excuse  quickly,  packed 
a  small  handbag,  disguised  myself  with  Cousin 
Laura's  hat  and  veil,  and  took  the  same  train  that 

324 


AN   OPERATIC   EVENING 

Tom  took.  I've  kept  my  eye  on  him  ever  since, 
and  he  has  no  idea  I'm  on  his  track.  The  only 
time  I  lost  was  in  hurrying  home  with  my  hand- 
bag to  see  my  aunt,  but  I  didn't  even  do  that 
until  I'd  followed  him  on  Chestnut  Street  to  the 
down-town  box-office  of  this  theatre  and  seen 
him  buy  a  seat,  which  I  later  found  out  from  the 
ticket-seller  was  for  to-night.  So  here  I  am,  and 
there  he  is." 

"Where?" 

"  Standing  over  there  by  that  wire  thing  like  a 
fence  next  the  street." 

The  doctor  looked  over  as  she  motioned.  He 
soon  recognized  the  slender  figure,  the  indolent 
attitude  of  Tom  Appleton,  the  blas6  young  man 
whom  he  was  so  accustomed  to  meeting  at  billiard- 
tables,  in  clubs,  or  hotels.  A  tolerant,  amiable 
expression  saved  the  youth's  smooth,  handsome 
face  from  vacuity.  He  was  dressed  with  careful 
nicety. 

"  But,"  said  Haslam,  "  a  man  about  to  take 
leave  of  this  life  doesn't  ordinarily  waste  time 
going  to  the  opera." 

"  Why  not?  He  probably  came  here  to  think. 
One  can  do  that  well  at  the  opera." 

"  Tom  Appleton  think?  —  I  beg  pardon  again. 
But  see,  he's  talking  to  a  girl  now,  Miss  Estabrook, 

325 


TALES    FROM   BOHEMIA 

of  North  Broad  Street.  His  smile  to  her  is  not  the 
kind  of  a  smile  that  commonly  lights  up  a  man's 
face  on  his  way  to  death." 

"  You  don't  suppose  he  would  conceal  his  in- 
tentions from  people  by  putting  on  his  usual 
gaiety,  do  you?  "  she  replied,  ironically;  adding, 
rather  stiffly,  "  He  has  at  least  sufficiently  good 
manners  to  do  that,  if  not  sufficient  duplicity." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you.  My  motive  was 
to  comfort  you  with  the  probability  that  he  has 
changed  his  mind  about  shuffling  off  his  mortal 
coil." 

"  You're  not  very  complimentary,  Doctor  Has- 
lam.  Perhaps  you  don't  think  that  being  jilted 
by  me  is  sufficient  to  make  a  man  commit  suicide." 

"  Frankly  I  don't.  If  I  had  thought  so  three 
years  ago,  I'd  be  dust  or  ashes  at  this  present 
moment.  It  can't  be  that  you  would  feel  hurt  if 
Tom  Appleton  there  should  fail  to  keep  his  oath 
and  should  continue  to  live  in  spite  of  your  re- 
nunciation of  him?  " 

"  How  dare  you  think  me  so  vain  and  cruel, 
when  I've  taken  all  this  trouble  and  come  all  this 
distance  simply  to  prevent  him  from  keeping  his 
oath?  " 

"  But  how  in  the  world  would  you  prevent  him 
if  he  were  honestly  bent  on  getting  rid  of  himself  ? ' ' 

326 


AN   OPERATIC    EVENING 

"  By  watching  him  until  the  moment  he  makes 
the  attempt,  and  then  rushing  up  and  telling  him 
that  I'd  renew  our  engagement.  That  would  stop 
him,  and  gain  time  for  me  to  manage  so  that  he'd 
fall  in  love  with  some  other  girl  and  release  me  of 
his  own  accord." 

"  But  think  a  moment.  You  can  watch  him 
until  the  opera  is  out  and  perhaps  for  some  time 
later.  But  if  he  means  to  die  he  certainly  has  a 
sufficient  share  of  good  manners  to  induce  him  to 
die  quietly  in  his  own  home.  So  he'll  eventually 
go  home.  When  his  door  is  locked,  how  are  you 
going  to  keep  your  eye  on  him,  and  how  can  you 
rush  to  him  at  the  proper  moment?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  No,  you're  a  woman." 

She  proceeded  to  do  some  thinking  there  upon 
the  stairs. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  finally,  "  I  know  what  to  do. 
I'll  follow  him  until  he  does  go  home,  to  make  sure 
he  doesn't  attempt  anything  before  that  time, 
and  then  I'll  tell  the  police.  They'll  watch 
him." 

"  You'll  probably  get  Mr.  Tom  Appleton  into 
some  very  embarrassing  complications  by  so 
doing." 

"  What  if  I  do,"  she  said,  heroically,  "  if  I  save 
327 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

his  life?  Now,  will  you  assist  me  to  watch  him? 
I'll  need  an  escort  in  the  street,  of  course." 

"  I  put  myself  at  your  command  from  now 
henceforth,  if  only  for  the  joy  of  the  time  that  I 
am  thus  privileged  to  pass  with  you." 

She  smiled  pleasantly,  and  with  pleasure,  trust- 
ing to  her  veil  to  hide  the  facial  indication  of  her 
feelings.  But  Haslam's  trained  gray  eye  noted 
the  smile,  and  also  what  kind  of  smile  it  was,  and 
the  discovery  had  a  potent  effect  upon  him.  It 
deprived  him  momentarily  of  the  power  of  speech, 
and  he  looked  vacantly  at  her  while  colour  came 
and  went  in  his  face. 

Then  he  regained  control  of  himself  and  he 
sighed  audibly,  while  she  dropped  her  eyes. 

They  were  still  standing  upon  the  stairs,  heed- 
less of  the  confusion  of  vocal  sounds  that  arose 
from  the  lobby  strollers,  from  the  boys  selling 
librettos,  from  the  people  returning  from  the 
vestibule  in  a  thick  stream,  from  the  musicians 
afar  in  the  orchestra,  tuning  their  instruments, 
from  the  many  sources  that  provide  the  delightful 
hubbub  of  the  entr'acte. 

"  Hush!  "  said  Amy  to  Haslam.  "  Stand  in 
front  of  me,  so  that  Tom  won't  see  me  if  he  looks 
up  here  as  he  passes.  He's  coming  this  way." 

Young  Appleton,  chaffing  with  the  persons 
328 


AN   OPERATIC   EVENING 

whom  he  had  met  at  the  exit,  was  sharing  in  the 
general  movement  from  the  byways  of  the  lobby 
to  the  middle  entrance  of  the  parquet.  The  electric 
bell  in  the  vestibule  had  sounded  the  signal  that 
the  third  act  was  to  begin.  Mr.  Hinrichs  had 
returned  to  the  director's  stand  in  the  orchestra 
and  was  raising  his  baton. 

Arrived  at  the  middle  entrance,  Appleton  raised 
his  hat  to  those  with  whom  he  had  been  talking, 
as  if  not  intending  to  go  in  just  then. 

Mr.  Hinrichs's  baton  tapped  upon  the  stand, 
the  music  began,  and  the  curtain  rose. 

"  Why  doesn't  he  go  in?  "  whispered  Amy, 
alluding  to  Appleton. 

But  the  young  man  yawned,  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  departed  from  the  lobby  —  not  to  the  audi- 
torium, but  out  to  the  vestibule. 

"  He's  going  to  leave  the  theatre,"  said  Miss 
Winnett,  excitedly.  "  We  must  follow." 

And  she  tripped  hastily  down  the  stairs,  Haslam 
after  her. 

ii 

A  Triangular  Chase 

Tom  Appleton  sauntered  out  through  the  great 
vestibule,  turning  his  eyes  casually  from  the 

329 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

marble  floor  up  to  the  balconies  that  look  down 
from  aloft  upon  this  outer  lobby.  He  was  whis- 
tling an  air  from  "  Apollo  "  which  he  had  heard 
a  few  weeks  before  at  the  New  York  Casino. 

He  hastened  his  steps  when  he  saw  a  'bus  pass- 
ing down  Broad  Street.  A  leap  down  the  Grand 
Opera  House  steps  and  a  lively  run  enabled  him  to 
catch  the  'bus  before  it  reached  Columbia  Avenue. 
He  clambered  up  to  the  top  and  was  soon  being 
well  shaken  as  he  enjoyed  the  breeze  and  the 
changing  view  of  the  handsome  residences  on 
North  Broad  Street. 

Haslam's  sharp  eyes  took  note  of  Appleton's 
action. 

"  He's  on  that  'bus,"  said  the  doctor  to  Amy  as 
she  took  his  arm  on  the  sidewalk.  "  Shall  we  take 
the  next  one?  " 

"No;  for  then  we  can't  see  where  he  gets  off. 
Can't  we  find  a  cab?  " 

"  There's  none  in  sight.  We  can  have  one 
called  here,  but  we'll  have  to  wait  for  it  at  least 
ten  minutes." 

"  That  will  never  do.  To  think  he  could  elude 
us  so  easily,  without  even  knowing  that  we're 
after  him!  " 

Vexation  was  stamped  upon  the  dainty  face, 
with  its  soft  brown  eyes,  as  she  raised  her  veil. 

330 


AN   OPERATIC   EVENING 

"  Ah!  I  have  it,"  said  Haslam,  who  would  have 
gone  to  great  lengths  to  drive  that  vexation 
away. 

"A bicycle!  This  section  teems  with  bicycle 
shops.  We  can  hire  a  tandem.  It's  a  good  thing, 
we're  both  expert  bicyclists." 

"  And  that  I'm  suitably  dressed  for  this  kind 
of  a  race,"  replied  Amy,  as  the  two  hurried  down 
the  block. 

She  stood  outside  the  bicycle  store  and  kept 
her  gaze  upon  the  'bus,  which  was  growing  less 
and  less  distinct  to  the  eye  as  it  rolled  down  the 
street,  while  Haslam  hastily  engaged  a  two- 
seated  machine. 

The  'bus  had  not  yet  disappeared  in  the  dark- 
ness when  the  pursuers,  Amy  upon  the  front  seat, 
glided  out  from  the  sidewalk  and  down  over  the 
asphalt.  The  passage  became  rough  below 
Columbia  Avenue,  where  the  asphalt  gives  away 
to  Belgian  block  paving.  Haslam's  athletic 
training  and  the  acquaintance  of  both  with  the 
bicycle  served  to  minimize  this  disadvantage. 

The  frequent  stoppages  of  the  'bus  made  it  less 
difficult  for  them  to  keep  in  close  sight  of  it.  Con- 
versation was  not  easy  between  them.  Both  kept 
silence,  therefore,  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  'bus 
ahead,  and  carefully  watching  its  every  stop. 

331 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

"  You're  sure  he  hasn't  gotten  off  yet?  "  she 
asked,  at  Girard  Avenue. 

"  Certain." 

"  He's  probably  going  to  his  rooms  down- 
town." 

"Or  to  his  club." 

So  they  pressed  southward.  Before  them 
stretched  the  lone  vista  of  electric  lights  away 
down  Broad  Street  to  the  City  Hall  invisible  in 
the  night. 

The  difficulty  of  talking  made  thinking  more 
involuntary.  Haslam's  mind  turned  back  three 
years.  Was  it,  as  he  had  dared  sometimes  to 
fancy,  a  juvenile  capriciousness  that  had  impelled 
this  girl  in  front  of  him  to  reject  him  when  she 
was  seventeen,  after  having  manifested  an  un- 
mistakable tenderness  for  him?  And  now  that 
she  was  twenty,  and  had  in  the  meantime  rejected 
several  others,  and  broken  one  engagement,  was  it 
too  late  to  attempt  to  revive  the  old  spark? 

His  meditations  were  suddenly  interrupted  by 
an  exclamation  from  the  girl  herself. 

"Look!  He's  left  the 'bus.  He's  going  into  the 
Park  Theatre." 

So  he  was.  His  slim  person  was  easily  dis- 
tinguishable in  the  wealth  of  electric  light  that 


332 


AN   OPERATIC   EVENING 

flooded  the  street  upon  which  looked  the  broad 
doorways  and  the  allegorical  facades  of  the  Park. 

The  second  act  of  "La  Belle  Helene"  was  not  yet 
over  when  Appleton  entered  and  stood  at  the  rear 
of  the  parquet  circle.  He  indifferently  watched 
the  finale,  made  some  mental  comments  upon  the 
white  flowing  gown  of  Pauline  Hall,  the  make-up 
of  Fred  Solomon,  and  the  grotesqueness  of  the  five 
Hellenic  kings.  Then  he  scanned  the  audience. 

Haslam  and  Amy  dismounted  near  the  theatre 
and  entrusted  the  bicycle  to  a  small  boy's  care. 
When  they  had  bought  admission  tickets  and 
reached  the  lobby,  the  gay  finale  of  the  second  act 
was  being  given.  The  curtain  fell,  was  called  up 
three  times,  and  then  people  began  to  pour  forth 
from  the  entrance  to  drink,  smoke,  or  enjoy  the 
air  in  the  entr'acte. 

Appleton  was  involved  in  the  movement  of 
those  who  resorted  to  the  little  garden  with  flowers 
and  fountain  and  asphalt  paving,  accessible 
through  the  northern  exits.  He  paused  for  a  time 
by  the  fountain,  not  sufficiently  curious  to  join 
the  crowd  that  stood  gaping  at  the  apertures 
through  which  the  members  of  the  chorus  could 
be  seen  ascending  the  stairs  to  the  upper  dressing- 
rooms,  many  of  them  carolling  scraps  of  song 
from  the  opera  as  they  went. 

333 


TALES   FROM    BOHEMIA 

Appleton  soon  re  entered  the  lobby  and  again 
surveyed  the  audience  closely.  Haslam  caught 
sight  of  him  just  in  time  to  avoid  him.  Amy 
had  resumed  the  concealment  of  her  veil. 

To  the  surprise  of  his  watchers,  Appleton  left 
the  theatre  before  the  third  act  opened.  Again 
he  jumped  upon  a  'bus,  but  this  time  it  was  upon 
one  moving  northward. 

"It  looks  as  if  he  were  going  back  to  the 
Grand  Opera  House,"  suggested  Amy,  as  she 
and  her  companion  started  to  repossess  the 
bicycle. 

"  His  movements  are  a  trifle  unaccountable," 
said  Haslam,  thoughtfully. 

"  Ah!  Now  you  admit  he  is  acting  queerly. 
Perhaps  you'll  see  I  was  quite  right." 

Again  mounted  upon  the  bicycle,  the  doctor 
and  the  young  woman  returned  to  the  chase. 
They  were  soon  brought  to  a  second  stop  by 
Appleton 's  departure  from  the  'bus  at  Girard 
Avenue. 

"  Where  can  he  be  going  to  now? "  queried 
Amy. 

"  He's  going  to  take  that  east-bound  Girard 
Avenue  car." 

"  So  he  is.  What  can  he  mean  to  do  in  that 
part  of  town?  " 

334 


AN   OPERATIC   EVENING 

They  turned  down  Girard  Avenue.  The  car 
was  half  a  block  in  advance  of  them. 

"You're  energetic  enough  in  this  pursuit,"  Amy 
shouted  back  to  the  doctor  as  the  machine  fled 
over  the  stones,  "  even  if  you  don't  believe  in 
it." 

"  Energetic  in  your  service,  now  and  always." 

She  made  no  answer. 

This  time  her  reflections  were  abruptly  checked 
—  as  his  had  been  on  Broad  Street  —  by  the  cry 
of  the  other. 

"  See!  He's  getting  off  at  the  Girard  Avenue 
Theatre." 

Again  they  found  a  custodian  for  their  bicycle 
and  followed  Appleton  into  a  theatre. 

The  young  man  stopped  at  the  box-office  in  the 
long  vestibule,  bought  a  ticket,  and  had  a  call 
made  for  a  coupe".  Then  he  passed  through  the 
luxurious  little  foyer,  beautiful  with  flowers  and 
soft  colours,  and  stood  behind  the  parquet  circle 
railing. 

Adelaide  Randall's  embodiment  of  "  The  Grand 
Duchess  "  held  his  attention  for  a  time.  Haslam 
and  Miss  Winnett,  to  avoid  the  risk  of  being  dis- 
covered by  him,  sought  the  seclusion  of  the 
balcony  stairs. 

"  We  had  a  few  bars  of  Offenbach  at  the  Park, 
335 


TALES   FROM   BOHEMIA 

and  here  we  have  Offenbach  again,"  commented 
the  doctor. 

"  And  again,  only  a  few  bars,  for  there  goes  our 
man." 

Appleton,  having  given  as  much  attention  to 
the  few  spectators  as  to  the  players,  left  the 
theatre  and  got  into  the  cab  that  had  been  ordered 
for  him. 

Haslam,  behind  the  pillar  at  the  entrance  to  the 
theatre,  overheard  Appleton's  direction  to  the 
driver.  It  was : 

"  To  the  Grand  Opera  House.  Hurry!  The 
opera  will  soon  be  over." 

The  cab  rumbled  away. 

"  It's  well  we  heard  his  order,"  observed 
Haslam  to  Amy.  "  We  couldn't  have  hoped  to 
keep  up  with  a  cab.  He'll  probably  wait  at  the 
Grand  Opera  House  till  we  get  there." 

"  But  we  mustn't  lose  any  time,  for,  as  he  said, 
the  performance  will  soon  be  over." 

"  Oh,  '  Tell '  is  a  long  opera  and  Guille  will  have 
an  encore  for  the  aria  in  the  last  act.  That  will 
give  us  a  few  minutes  more." 


336 


AN   OPERATIC   EVENING 

in 

A    Telegraphic    Revelation 

A  boy  walking  down  Girard  Avenue,  as  Apple- 
ton  got  into  the  cab,  had  been  whistling  the  tune 
of  "  They're  After  Me,"  -a  thing  that  was  new 
to  the  variety  stage  last  fall,  but  is  dead  this 
summer.  The  air,  whistled  by  the  boy,  clung  to 
Appleton's  sense,  and  he  unconsciously  hummed 
it  to  himself  as  his  cab  went  on  its  grinding  way 
over  the  stones. 

The  cabman  was  considerate  of  his  horse,  and 
he  coolly  ignored  Appleton's  occasional  shouts 
of,  "  Get  along  there,  won't  you?  " 

It  was,  therefore,  not  impossible  for  the 
'bicyclists  to  keep  in  sight  of  the  coupe". 

"  All  this  concern  about  a  man  you  say  you 
don't  care  for,"  said  Haslam  to  Amy,  as  the 
bicycle  turned  up  Broad  Street.  "  It's  unprece- 
dented." 

"It's  only  humanity." 

"  You  didn't  bother  about  following  me  around 
like  this  when  you  threw  me  over." 

"  You  didn't  threaten  to  kill  yourself." 

"No;  if  I  had,  I'd  have  carried  out  my  threat. 


337 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

But  for  months  I  endured  a  living  death  —  or 
worse." 

"  Really?    Did  you,  though?  " 

Eager  inquiry  and  sudden  elation  were  ex- 
pressed in  this  speech. 

"  Of  course  I  did.  Why  do  you  ask  in  that 
way?  " 

"  Oh — you  took  me  by  surprise.  Why  did  you 
never  tell  me  it  affected  you  so  ?  I  thought  —  I 
thought  —  " 

"  What  did  you  think?  " 

"  That  if  you  really  cared  for  me  you  would 
have  —  tried  again." 

"What?  Then  I  was  fatally  ignorant!  I 
thought  that  when  you  said  a  thing,  you  meant 
it." 

"  I  didn't  know  what  I  meant  until  it  was  too 
late." 

"  But  is  it  too  late  —  ah!  see,  he's  getting  out 
of  the  cab  at  the  Grand  Opera  House." 

They  quickly  switched  the  bicycle  from  the 
street  to  the  sidewalk,  and  both  dismounted. 

They  were  checked  at  the  entrance  to  the 
theatre  by  the  appearance  of  Appleton.  He  was 
coming  from  within  the  building,  and  with  him 
were  two  women,  one  elderly  and  unattractive, 
the  other  a  plump  young  person  with  bright  blue 

338 


AN   OPERATIC    EVENING 

eyes  in  a  saucy  face  that  had  more  claim  to 
piquant  effrontery  than  to  beauty.  She  was 
simply  dressed  and  was  all  smiles  to  Appleton. 

Amy  and  Haslam  quickly  turned  their  backs, 
thus  avoiding  recognition,  and  while  they  seemed 
to  be  looking  through  the  glass  front  into  the 
vestibule,  they  overheard  the  following  conver- 
sation between  the  blue-eyed  girl  and  Appleton. 

"I'm  glad  you  found  us  at  last,  Tom.  Three 
acts  of  grand  opera  are  about  enough  for  me, 
thanks,  and  we'd  have  left  sooner  if  your  telegram 
that  you'd  be  in  town  to-night  hadn't  made  me 
expect  to  see  you." 

"  Well,  I've  been  hunting  for  you  in  every  open 
theatre  in  town  where  there's  grand  opera.  In 
your  answer  to  my  telegram  from  the  Catskills, 
you  said  merely  you  were  going  to  the  opera  this 
evening.  You  didn't  say  what  opera,  but  I  sup- 
posed it  was  this  one,  so  I  bought  a  ticket  as  soon 
as  I  arrived  in  town  at  the  down-town  office.  I 
got  here  after  the  first  act,  and  spent  all  the 
second  act  looking  around  for  you." 

"  It's  strange  you  didn't  see  us.  We  were  in 
the  middle  of  row  K,  right." 

"  Well,  I  missed  you,  that's  all,  and  I  kept  a 
watch  on  the  lobby  after  the  act,  thinking  you'd 
perhaps  come  out  between  the  acts.  Then  I  went 


TALES    FROM    BOHEMIA 

to  the   Park  Theatre,  and  then  to  the   Girard 
Avenue." 

Amy  and  Haslam  went  into  the  vestibule.  Amy 
was  crimson  with  anger.  Haslam  quietly  said : 

"  Do  you  wish  to  continue  the  pursuit?  " 

Before  she  found  time  to  answer,  another 
matter  distracted  her  attention. 

"Look!  There's  Mary,  the  housemaid,  who 
was  to  stay  up  for  me  till  I  got  home.  She  has 
come  here  for  me." 

The  servant  stood  by  the  door  leading  into  the 
lobby,  in  a  position  enabling  her  to  scan  the  faces 
of  people  coming  out  from  the  auditorium. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Amy,  are  you  here?  I  was  waiting 
for  you  to  come  out.  Here's  a  telegram  that 
came  about  a  half -hour  ago.  I  thought  it  might 
be  important." 

Amy  tore  open  the  envelope. 

"  Why,"  she  said  to  Haslam,  "  this  was  sent 
to-day  from  Philadelphia  to  me  at  the  Catskills, 
and  my  cousins  have  had  it  repeated  back  to  me. 
And  look  —  it's  signed  by  you." 

"  I  surely  didn't  send  it." 

But  there  was  the  name  beyond  doubt,  "  Henry 
Haslam,  M.D." 

'  This  is  a  mystery  to  me,  I  assure  you,"  reiter- 
ated the  doctor. 

340 


AN   OPERATIC    EVENING 

"  But  not  to  me,"  cried  Amy.  "  Read  the 
message  and  you'll  understand." 

He  read  these  words : 

"  Mr.  Appleton  is  very  ill.  His  life  depends 
upon  his  will-power.  He  tells  me  that  you  alone 
can  say  the  word  that  will  save  him.  Henry 
Haslam,  M.D." 

Haslam  smiled. 

A  clever  invention  to  make  you  think  he  tried 
to  execute  his  threat.  Now  you  know  what  he 
was  doing  while  you  were  taking  your  hand-bag 
home.  He  probably  concocted  the  scheme  on  his 
journey.  But  why  did  he  sign  my  name,  I 
wonder?  " 

She  dropped  her  eyes  and  answered  in  a  low 
tone: 

"  Because  he  knew  that  I  would  believe  any- 
thing said  by  you." 

"  Would  you  believe  that  I  love  you  still  more 
than  I  did  three  years  ago?  " 

"  Yes ;  if  it  came  from  your  own  lips  —  not  by 
telegraph." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  now,  and  her  lips,  too; 
Mary  the  housemaid  sensibly  looked  another  way. 

THE     END. 

341 


From 

L.  C.  Page  &  Company's 
Announcement  List 
of  New  Fiction 


The  Call  of  the  South 

BY  ROBERT  LEE  DURHAM.     Cloth  decorative,  with  6  illus- 
trations by  Henry  Roth  .         .         .         .  $1.50 

A  very  strong  novel  dealing  with  the  race  problem  in  this 
country.  The  principal  theme  is  the  danger  to  society  from  the 
increasing  miscegenation  of  the  black  and  white  races,  and  the 
encouragement  it  receives  hi  the  social  amenities  extended  to 
negroes  of  distinction  by  persons  prominent  in  politics,  philan- 
thropy and  educational  endeavor;  and  the  author,  a  Southern 
lawyer,  hopes  to  call  the  attention  of  the  whole  country  to  the 
need  of  earnest  work  toward  its  discouragement.  He  has 
written  an  absorbing  drama  of  life  which  appeals  with  apparent 
logic  and  of  which  the  inevitable  denouement  comes  as  a  final 
and  convincing  climax. 

The  author  may  be  criticized  by  those  who  prefer  not  to  face 
the  hour  "  When  Your  Fear  Cometh  As  Desolation  And  Your 
Destruction  Cometh  As  A  Whirlwind;  "  but  his  honesty  of 
purpose  in  the  frank  expression  of  a  danger  so  well  understood 
in  the  South,  which,  however,  many  hi  the  North  refuse  to 
recognize,  while  others  have  overlooked  it,  will  be  upheld  by 
the  sober  second  thought  of  the  majority  of  his  readers. 


L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY'S 


The  House  in  the  Water 

BY  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS,  author  of  "  The  Haunters  of 
the  Silences,"  "  Red  Fox,"  "  The  Heart  of  the  Ancient 
Wood,"  etc.  With  cover  design,  sixteen  full-page  drawings, 
and  many  minor  decorations  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 
Cloth  decorative,  with  decorated  wrapper  .  .  $1.50 

Professor  Roberts's  new  book  of  nature  and  animal  life  is  one 
long  story  in  which  he  tells  of  the  life  of  that  wonderfully  acute 
and  tireless  little  worker,  the  beaver.  "  The  Boy  "  and  Jabe 
the  Woodsman  again  appear,  figuring  in  the  story  even  more 
than  they  did  in  "  Red  Fox;  "  and  the  adventures  of  the  boy 
and  the  beaver  make  most  absorbing  reading  for  young  and 
old. 

The  following  chapter  headings  for  "  The  House  in  the 
Water  "  will  give  an  idea  of  the  fascinating  reading  to  come: 

THE  SOUND  IN  THE  NIGHT     (Beavers  at  Work). 

THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  POND     (Otter  and  Beaver). 

IN  THE  UNDER- WATER  WORLD     (Home  Life  of  the  Beaver). 

NIGHT  WATCHERS     ("  The  Boy  "  and  Jabe  and  a  Lynx  See 

the  Beavers  at  Work). 
DAM  REPAIRING  AND  DAM  BUILDING    (A  "  House-raising  " 

Bee). 

THE  PERIL  OF  THE  TRAPS    (Jabe  Shows  "  The  Boy"). 
WINTER  UNDER  WATER     (Safe  from  All  but  Man). 
THE  SAVING  OF  BOY'S  POND     ("  The  Boy  "    Captures  Two 

Outlaws). 

"  As  a  writer  about  animals,  Mr.  Roberts  occupies  an  enviable 
place.  He  is  the  most  literary,  as  well  as  the  most  imaginative 
and  vivid  of  all  the  nature  writers."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  His  animal  stories  are  marvels  of  sympathetic  science  and 
literary  exactness."  —  New  York  World. 

"  Poet  Laureate  of  the  Animal  World,  Professor  Roberts 
displays  the  keenest  powers  of  observation  closely  interwoven 
with  a  fine  imaginative  discretion."  —  Boston  Transcript. 


LIST  OF  NEW  FICTION  3 

Captain  Love 

THE  HISTORY  OF  A  MOST  ROMANTIC  EVENT  IN  THE  LIFE  OP 
AN  ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN  DURING  THE  REIGN  OF  His  MAJESTY 
GEORGE  THE  FIRST.  CONTAINING  INCIDENTS  OF  COURTSHIP 
AND  DANGER  AS  RELATED  IN  THE  CHRONICLES  OF  THE  PERIOD 
AND  Now  SET  DOWN  IN  PRINT 

BY  THEODORE  ROBERTS,  author  of  "  The  Red  Feathers," 
"  Brothers  of  Peril,"  etc.  Cloth  decorative,  illustrated  by 
Frank  T.  Merrill $1.50 

A  stirring  romance  with  its  scene  laid  in  the  troublous  times 
in  England  when  so  many  broken  gentlemen  foregathered  with 
the  "  Knights  of  the  Road;  "  when  a  man  might  lose  part  of 
his  purse  to  his  opponent  at  "  White's  "  over  the  dice,  and  the 
next  day  be  relieved  of  the  rest  of  his  money  on  some  lonely 
heath  at  the  point  of  a  pistol  in  the  hand  of  the  self-same  gambler. 

But,  if  the  setting  be  similar  to  other  novels  of  the  period,  the 
story  is  not.  Mr.  Roberta's  work  is  always  original,  his  style  is 
always  graceful,  his  imagination  fine,  his  situations  refreshingly 
novel.  In  his  new  book  he  has  excelled  himself.  It  is  un- 
doubtedly the  best  thing  he  has  done. 


Bahama  Bill 

BY  T.  JENKINS  HAINS,  author  of  "  The  Black  Barque," 
"  The  Voyage  of  the  Arrow,"  etc.  Cloth  decorative,  with 
frontispiece  in  colors  by  H.  R.  Reuterdahl  .  .  $1.50 

The  scene  of  Captain  Hains's  new  sea  story  is  laid  in  the 
region  of  the  Florida  Keys.  His  hero,  the  giant  mate  of  the 
wrecking  sloop,  Sea-Horse,  while  not  one  to  stir  the  emotions 
of  gentle  feminine  readers,  will  arouse  interest  and  admiration 
in  men  who  appreciate  bravery  and  daring. 

His  adventures  while  plying  his  desperate  trade  are  full  of 
the  danger  that  holds  one  at  a  sharp  tension,  and  the  reader 
forgets  to  be  on  the  side  of  law  and  order  in  his  eagerness  to  see 
the  "  wrecker  "  safely  through  his  exciting  escapades. 

Captain  Hains's  descriptions  of  life  at  sea  are  vivid,  absorbingly 
frank  and  remarkably  true.  "  Bahama  Bill  "  ranks  high  as 
a  stirring,  realistic,  unspftened  and  undiluted  tale  of  the  sea, 
chock  full  of  engrossing  interest. 


4  L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY'S 

Matthew  Porter 

BT  GAMALIEL  BRADFORD,  JR.,  author  of  "The  Private  Tutor," 
etc.      With  a  frontispiece  in  colors  by  Griswold  Tyng     $1.50 
When  a  young  man  has  birth  and  character  and  strong  ambi- 
tion it  is  safe  to  predict  for  him  a  brilliant  career;    and,  when 
The  Girl  comes  into  his  life,  a  romance  out  of  the  ordinary. 
Such  a  man  is  Matthew  Porter,  and  the  author  has  drawn  him 
with  fine  power. 

Mr.  Bradford  has  given  us  a  charming  romance  with  an 
unusual  motive.  Effective  glimpses  of  the  social  life  of  Boston 
form  a  contrast  to  the  more  serious  purpose  of  the  story;  but, 
in  "  Matthew  Porter,"  it  is  the  conflict  of  personalities,  the 
development  of  character,  the  human  element  which  grips  the 
attention  and  compels  admiration. 

Anne  of  Green  Gables 

BY  L.  M.  MONTGOMERY.  Cloth  decorative,  illustrated  $1.50 
Every  one,  young  or  old,  who  reads  the  story  of  "  Anne  of 
Green  Gables,"  will  fall  in  love  with  her,  and  tell  their  friends 
of  her  irresistible  charm.  In  her  creation  of  the  young  heroine 
of  this  delightful  tale  Miss  Montgomery  will  receive  praise  for 
her  fine  sympathy  with  and  delicate  appreciation  of  sensitive 
and  imaginative  girlhood. 

The  story  would  take  rank  for  the  character  of  Anne  alone; 
but  in  the  delineation  of  the  characters  of  the  old  farmer,  and 
his  crabbed,  dried-up  spinster  sister  who  adopt  her,  the  author 
has  shown  an  insight  and  descriptive  power  which  add  much  to 
the  fascination  of  the  book. 

Spinster  Farm 

BY  HELEN  M.  WINSLOW,  author  of  "  Literary  Boston."    Illus- 
trated from  original  photographs       ....      $1.50 
Whatever  Miss  Winslow  writes  is  good,  for  she  is  in  accord 
with  the  life  worth  living.     The  Spinster,  her  niece  "  Peggy," 
the    Professor,    and    young    Robert    Graves,  —  not    forgetting 
Hiram,  the  hired  man,  —  are   the  characters  to  whom  we  are 
introduced  on  "  Spinster  Farm."     Most  of  the  incidents  and 
all  of  the  characters  are  real,  as  well  as  the  farm  and  farmhouse, 
unchanged  since  Colonial  days. 

Light-hearted  character  sketches,  and  equally  refreshing  and 
unexpected  happenings  are  woven  together  with  a  thread  of 
happy  romance  of  which  Peggy  of  course  is  the  vivacious  heroine. 
Alluring  descriptions  of  nature  and  country  life  are  given  with 
fascinating  bits  of  biography  of  the  farm  animals  and  household 
pets. 


Selections  from 

L.  C.  Page  and  Company's 

List  of  Fiction 


WORKS  OF 

ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS 

Each  one  vol.,  library  r*mo,  cloth  decorative    .        . 

The  Flight  of  Georgiana 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  YOUNG  PRETENDER.  Illus- 
trated by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

"  A  love-story  in  the  highest  degree,  a  dashing  story,  and  a  re- 
markably well  finished  piece  of  work."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

The  Bright  Face  of  Danger 

Being  an  account  of  some  adventures  of  Henri  de  Launay,  son  of 

the  Sieur  de  la  Tournoire.     Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

"  Mr.   Stephens   has  fairly   outdone    himself.       We   thank   him 

heartily.     The   story  is   nothing  if   not   spirited   and  entertaining, 

rational  and  convincing."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

The  Mystery  of  Murray  Davenport 

(4oth  thousand.) 

"This  is  easily  the  best  thing  that  Mr.  Stephens  has  yet  done. 
Those  familiar  with  his  other  novels  can  best  judge  the  measure  of 
this  praise,  which  is  generous."  —  Buffalo  News. 

Captain  Ravenshaw 

OR,  THE  MAID  OF  CHEAPSIDE.  (52d  thousand.)  A  romance 
of  Elizabethan  London.  Illustrations  by  Howard  Pyle  and  other 
artists. 

Not  since  the  absorbing  adventures  of  D'Artagnan'have  we  had 
anything  so  good  in  the  blended  vein  of  romance  and  comedy. 

The  Continental  Dragoon 

A  ROMANCE  OF  PHILIPSE  MANOR  HOUSE  IN  1778.  (53d 
thousand.)  Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

A  stirring  romance  of  the  Revolution,  with  its  scene  laid  on 
neutral  territory. 

I 


L.  C.  PAGE   &   COMPANY'S 


Philip  Winwood 

(70th  thousand.)  A  Sketch  of  the  Domestic  History  of  an 
American  Captain  in  the  War  of  Independence,  embracing  events 
that  occurred  between  and  during  the  years  1763  and  1785  in 
New  York  and  London.  Illustrated  by  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 

An  Enemy  to  the  King 

(70th  thousand.)     From  the  "  Recently  Discovered  Memoirs   of 
the  Sieur  de  la  Tournoire."     Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young. 
An   historical  romance  of  the   sixteenth  century,  describing  the 

adventures  of  a  young  French  nobleman  at  the  court  of  Henry  III., 

and  on  the  field  with  Henry  IV. 

Th«  Road  to  Paris 

A   STORY  or  ADVENTURE.      (35th  thousand.)      Illustrated  by 

H.  C.  Edwards. 

An  historical  romance  of  the  eighteenth  century,  being  an  account 
of  the  lif«  of  an  American  gentleman  adventurer  of  Jacobite  an- 
cestry. 

A  Gentleman  Player 

His  ADVENTURES  ON  A  SECRET  MISSION  FOR  QUEEN  ELIZA- 
BETH.    (48th  thousand.)     Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 
Tht  «tory  of  a  young  gentleman  who  joins  Shakespeare's  com- 
pany of  players,  and  becomes  a  friend  and  prote'ge'  of  the  great 
poet. 

Clementina's  Highwayman 

Cloth  decorative,  illustrated $1.50 

Mr.  Stephens  has  put  into  his  new  book,  "  Clementina's  Highway 
man,"  the  finest  qualities  of  plot,  construction,  and  literary  finish. 

The  story  is  laid  in  the  mid-Georgian  period.  It  is  a  dashing, 
sparkling,  vivacious  comedy,  with  a  heroine  as  lovely  and  changeable 
as  an  April  day,  and  a  hero  all  ardor  and  daring. 

The  exquisite  quality  of  Mr.  Stephens's  literary  style  clothes  the 
story  in  a  rich  but  delicate  word-fabric ;  and  never  before  have  his 
letting  and  atmosphere  been  so  perfect. 


LIST  OF  FICTION 


WORKS  OF 

CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 

Haunters  of  the  Silences 

Cloth,  one  volume,  with  many  drawings  by  Charles  Livingston 
Bull,  four  of  which  are  in  full  color  ....  $2.00 

The  stories  in  Mr.  Roberta's  new  collection  are  the  strongest  and 
best  he  has  ever  written. 

He  has  largely  taken  for  his  subjects  those  animals  rarely  met 
with  in  books,  whose  lives  are  spent  •*  In  the  Silences,"  where  they 
are  the  supreme  rulers.  Mr.  Roberts  has  written  of  them  sympa- 
thetically, as  always,  but  with  fine  regard  for  the  scientific  truth. 

"  As  a  writer  about  animals,  Mr.  Roberts  occupies  an  enviable 
place.  He  is  the  most  literary,  as  well  as  the  most  imaginative 
and  vivid  of  all  the  nature  writers." —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  His  animal  stories  are  marvels  of  sympathetic  science  and  liter- 
ary exactness." —  New  York  World. 

Red  Fox 

THE  STORY  OF  His  ADVENTUROUS  CAREER  IN  THE  RINGWAAK 
WILDS,  AND  OF  His  FINAL  TRIUMPH  OVER  THE  ENEMIES  or 
His   KIND.      With   fifty  illustrations,   including  frontispiece  in 
color  and  cover  design  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 
Square  quarto,  cloth  decorative £2.00 

"  Infinitely  more  wholesome  reading  than  the  average  tale  of 
sport,  since  it  gives  a  glimpse  of  the  hunt  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  hunted." —  Boston  Transcript. 

"True  in  substance  but  fascinating  as  fiction.  It  will  interest 
old  and  young,  city-bound  and  free-footed,  those  who  know  animals 
and  those  who  do  not."  —  Chicago  Record- Herald. 

"  A  brilliant  chapter  in  natural  history."  —  Philadelphia  North 
American. 


L.  C.  PAGE   &    COMPANY'S 


The  Kindred  of  the  Wild 

A  BOOK  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE.  With  fifty-one  full-page  plates  and 
many  decorations  from  drawings  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

Square  quarto,  decorative  cover $2.00 

"  Is  in  many  ways  the  most  brilliant  collection  of  animal  stories 
that  has  appeared ;  well  named  and  well  done."  — John  Burroughs. 

The  Watchers  of  the  Trails 

A  companion  volume  to  "  The  Kindred  of  the  Wild."  With 
forty-eight  full-page  plates  and  many  decorations  from  drawings 
by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

Square  quarto,  decorative  cover $2.00 

"  These  stories  are  exquisite  in  their  refinement,  and  yet  robust 

in  their  appreciation  of  some  of  the  rougher  phases  of  woodcraft. 

Among  the  many  writers  about  animals,  Mr.  Roberts  occupies  an 

enviable  place.  —  The  Outlook. 

"  This  is  a  book  full  of  delight.     An  additional  charm  lies  in  Mr. 

Bull's  faithful  and  graphic  illustrations,  which  in  fashion  all   their 

own  tell  the  story  of  the  wild  life,  illuminating  and  supplementing 

the  pen  pictures  of  the  author." — Literary  Digest. 

The  Heart  That  Knows 

Library  i  amo,  cloth,  decorative  cover          ....    $1.50 
"  A  novel  of  singularly  effective  strength,  luminous   in  literary 
color,  rich  in  its  passionate,  yet  tender  drama."  —  New  York  Globe. 

Earth's  Enigmas 

A  new  edition  of  Mr.  Roberts's  first  volume  of  fiction,  published 
in  1892,  and  out  of  print  for  several  years,  with  the  addition  of 
three  new  stories,  and  ten  illustrations  by  Charles  Livingston 
Bull. 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth,  decorative  cover          ....    $1.50 
"  It    will    rank   high    among   collections   of     short   stories.      In 
1  Earth's  Enigmas  '  is  a  wider  range  of  subject  than  in  the  '  Kin- 
dred of  the  Wild.'" — Review  from  advance  sheets  of  the  illustrated 
edition  by  Tiffany  Blake  in  the  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

Barbara  Ladd 

With  four  illustrations  by  Frank  Verbeck. 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth,  decorative  cover          ....    $1.50 

"From  the  opening  chapter  to  the  final  page  Mr.  Roberts  lures 

us  on  by  his  rapt  devotion  to  the  changing  aspects  of  Nature  and 

by  his  keen  and  sympathetic  analysis  of  human  character."  —  Boston 

Transcript. 


LIST  OF  FICTION- 5 

Cameron  of  Lochiel 

Translated  from  the  French  of  Philippe  Aubert  de  Gaspe*,  with 

frontispiece  in  color  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

Library  izmo,  cloth  decorative $1*50 

"  Professor  Roberts  deserves  the  thanks  of  his  reader  for  giving 
a  wider  audience  an  opportunity  to  enjoy  this  striking  bit  of  French 
Canadian  literature."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  It  is  not  often  in  these  days  of  sensational  and  philosophical 
novels  that  one  picks  up  a  book  that  so  touches  the  heart."  — 
Boston  Transcript. 

The  Prisoner  of  Mademoiselle 

With  frontispiece  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  gilt  top      .        ,        .        .    £1.50 

A  tale  of  Acadia, —  a  land  which  is  the  author's  heart's  delight, 
—  of  a  valiant  young  lieutenant  and  a  winsome  maiden,  who  first 
captures  and  then  captivates. 

"  This  is  the  kind  of  a  story  that  makes  one  grow  younger,  more 
innocent,  more  light-hearted.  Its  literary  quality  is  impeccable. 
It  is  not  every  day  that  such  a  heroine  blossoms  into  even  tempo- 
rary existence,  and  the  very  name  of  the  story  bears  a  breath  of 
charm."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

The  Heart  of  the  Ancient  Wood 

With  six  illustrations  by  James  L.  Weston. 

Library  I2mo,  decorative  cover $1.50 

"One  of  the  most  fascinating  novels  of  recent  days." — Boston 
Journal. 

"  A  classic  twentieth-century  romance."  —  New  York  Commercial 
Advertiser. 

The  Forge  in  the  Forest 

Being  the  Narrative  of  the  Acadian  Ranger,  Jean  de  Mer, 
Seigneur  de  Briart,  and  how  he  crossed  the  Black  Abbe,  and  of 
his  adventures  in  a  strange  fellowship.  Illustrated  by  Henry 
Sandham,  R.  C.  A. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top fi-SO 

A  story  of  pure  love  and  heroic  adventure. 

By  the  Marshes  of  Minas 

Library  i  amo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  illustrated  .  .  .  .  $1.50 
Most  of  these  romances  are  in  the  author's  lighter  and  more 

playful  vein;   each  is  a  unit  of  absorbing  interest  and  exquisite 

workmanship. 


6 L.  C.  PAGE   &    COMPANY'S 

A  Sister  to  Evangeline 

Being  the  Story  of  Yvonne  de  Lamourie,  and  how  she  went  into 
exile  with  the  villagers  of  Grand  Pre. 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth,   gilt  top,  illustrated     ....     $1.50 
Swift  action,  fresh  atmosphere,  wholesome  purity,  deep  passion, 
and  searching  analysis  characterize  this  strong  novel. 


WORKS  OF 

LILIAN  BELL 

Carolina  Lee 

With  a  frontispiece  in  color  from  an  oil  painting  by  Dora  Wheeler 
Keith.     Library  i  amo,  cloth,  decorative  cover    .        .         .    $1.50 
"  A  Christian  Science  novel,  full  of  action,  alive  with  incident  and 
brisk  with  pithy  dialogue  and  humor."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  A  charming  portrayal  of  the  attractive  life  of  the  South,  refresh- 
ing as  a  breeze  that  blows  through  a  pine  forest."  —  Albany  Times- 
Union. 

Hope  Loring 

Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Library  izmo,  cloth,  decorative  cover  ....  £1.50 
"Tall,  slender,  and  athletic,  fragile-looking,  yet  with  nerves  and 
sinews  of  steel  under  the  velvet  flesh,  frank  as  a  boy  and  tender  and 
beautiful  as  a  woman,  free  and  independent,  yet  not  bold  —  such  is 
4  Hope  Loring,'  by  long  odds  the  subtlest  study  that  has  yet  been 
made  of  the  American  girl."  —  Dorothy  Dixt  in  the  New  York 
American. 

Abroad  with  the  Jimmies 

With  a  portrait,  in  duogravure,  of  the  author. 
Library  i  amo,  cloth,  decorative  cover          ....    $1.50 
"  Full  of  ozone,  of  snap,  of  ginger,  of  swing  and  momentum."  — 
Chicago  Evening  Post. 

At  Home  with  the  Jardines 

A  companion  volume  to  "  Abroad  with  the  Jimmies." 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth,  decorative  cover $1.50 

41  Bits  of  gay  humor,  sunny,  whimsical  philosophy,  and  keen  in- 
dubitable insight  into  the  less  evident  aspects  and  workings  of  pure 
human  nature,  with  a  slender  thread  of  a  cleverly  extraneous  love 
story,  keep  the  interest  of  the  reader  fresh." —  Chicago  Record- 
Herald. 


LOFLAND&RUSSELI 

Books  and  Stationery 

732  W.  6th  ST. 


